Wednesday 5 March 2014

That Time of Year

Its one of these points in my yearly cycle it seems. Or at least the way things have been going, since I’m only new, what the fuck do I know?!
I’m in a block.
And yet, I have the ideas and the dialogue and the concept of what needs to be written, hell I can sit at the computer and write something, anything, good bad, but at least I can do it. but something inside me is dead.
It’s dead and starting to fucking smell.
I’d like to use the excuse that I’m waiting for an email in regards to a short story, I thought I was going to get rejected flat out, because it sucked, but I re-read that baby and it’s actually quite good. I like it, and so the rejection will probably come from it not being what there looking for.
I didn’t see anywhere near as many mistakes in it as I have with other things. I actually feel I was being very carefully with this story before I sent it off. and yeah there are things I feel could be cut, little words changed here or there, sentences linked together rather than having a fullstop, but nothing about the story was wrong. I could not see any holes or any paragraph that made no sense, so as it is, it’ll come down to what they are looking for and if this story fits, not the work I put out, and if it does get rejected I’m actually just gonna get it edited myself and put it out there myself.
I’d like to blame my grans death, and it has hit me hard, harder than my granda’s, and though there is an element to it that’s making me just not care about the world In general I’m not sure if I can blame that.
The funeral was weird, we got there a little late—it was a Catholic church funeral, for those who might understand that little different in the way things are run. And so we got there and my mum and her sisters were up doing the eulogy and mum was last, she was chocked up and it was hard, to hear what she was saying and to have her voice crack, I teared up. Then the priest got there, he had us all rise (fuck you have to do that a lot) and he started to so a pray and my mind just went…clicked…fuckoff!!! ‘cause I have some big issues with the Catholic church, big and passionate issues with the church I’m baptised under. So as soon as he started the pray my whole mind just lit up with that passionate displeasure I had with everything that he and the building stood for.
I think whats happened is that I’ve dumped into a depression that I haven’t noticed because so much was happening around me, things that needed me stand up and hold myself together. or, at least, it’s what I’m thinking it. I have no idea what my thoughts are really saying under the layers of depression I’m blanketed under. and the worse thing is I really should see someone about it while I’m in this headspace because I’ve been under it for more than three weeks, and though I don’t wanna kill myself there’s a point that I’m not happy and I really need to get help.
But I don’t like to talk about it when I’m under, I don’t like to notice it, or to point out that this is happening to me because then people will see that wrongness in me and I don’t want that. I don’t….
Anyway, at the moment I have this thought in my head. I’m all, ‘I wish I could edit book 5 soon ‘cause that will get me motivated to write. It will get that series back into my head, and I’ll get excited about it because it happened before’. And that’s true it did when the first edits came in. but what I really need to do is make myself write it.
Hell, I need to make myself do anything. Yesterday I sat in front of the computer and I did shit all. Didn’t write, didn’t read, and I defiantly didn’t clean the house like I was meant to. I just sat there wrote, I think, 3 things on fb and commented a little, but other than that I didn’t sweet shit all. And I honestly don’t understand why I wasn’t bored, or where the time went because it wasn’t as if all these comments took up more than a half hour and that was with breaks. It wasn’t as if…anything. I just sat there, without a thought in my head and did nothing.
I am a depressant. And the last couple of weeks I’ve felt the water brush at my face as I hold on the bridge with sloppy fingertips.
Shit I’m in trouble.
Betty McGee
21st of February 1930 to 23rd of February 2014
You’ll be missed

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