An Open Letter To @Hungry_Joe
The eerie, digital white glow stares back ominously, obstinately, expectantly. The virgin paper begs to be defiled, but the words, the words, they just won’t happen.
There are 27 words in that sentence, and I had to correct six typos. I have no doubt there are several more in this post that went undetected.
The same is true at work. I feel like I’m idling. Over the last couple of weeks, I’ve stopped being clever. I’ve taken criticism too sharply, been too arrogant; I’ve been writing to put bread on the table, instead of writing to read it back and smile.
There are dozens of people who would chew their legs off for a shot at what I get paid to do, and most of them would probably be better than me at it, which means that if there’s one thing I can’t afford above all the other things I can’t afford, it’s complacency. I’ve been complacent before; it’s ruinous.
I’ve lost my discipline. I had that word tattooed onto the sole of my foot to keep me focused but I’m flailing. Words are laborious now. Morphology won’t morph, phonology never phones and my syntax is taxed. I’m a boxer on a losing streak. A surgeon with tremulous hands. A pianist with broken fingers. What happens when the one craft for which I consider myself able betrays me?
This isn’t block. God knows I want to write, and God knows there are a million different things I want to write about, and a thousand burlesque events I’m yet to review, and a hundred sexual anecdotes I’d like to relate, and dozens of observations I’d like to share. No, this isn’t block. This is laziness.
This post is for me. This post is me addressing my laziness. Wake up, Stu.