Blaugust Day 12 – Homer strikes back

I now know why other, smarter Blaugust bloggers elected to not include the Blaugust tag in their post titles. For one thing, it means it’s going to be glaringly obvious — especially to me — if I miss a day, and I sort of promised myself I would try not to miss any days. And yet…

IGMonkey-1_1024x1024
Homer, my Instant Gratification Monkey

And yet the more I try to force the posts, the more by brain is pushing back against the very idea of writing anything. When I’m not blogging regularly — as in the last three years — there’s nothing Homer wants more than to do a blog post!!11oneone… provided I don’t actually sit down and do one. I don’t know if my Instant Gratification Monkey is a special mutant kind, but whatever he is, he always wants to be doing anything but what I want to, ought to or should be doing right now. When I’m working he wants to play games. When I have time to play games, he wants to write blog posts. When I sit down to write blog posts, he makes this passive-aggressive cross face and points at the TV. When I watch TV, he reminds me I have deadlines to meet.

Little shit.

I shall persevere, even if my post content has become cobwebs held together by fluff, because I think there’s something going on there.

Sometime in the last 3 or 4 years I lost confidence in the fact that I had anything interesting to say, even to myself. (How selective is that? If you can’t talk to yourself, who can you talk to?) I decided I’d said it all, others had said or were saying it better, and I wasn’t playing much anyway so why bother. Bullshit. When one writes for the love of writing and for the joy of expressing oneself, one doesn’t second-guess one’s motives. They’re right there: I used to write because I bloody well wanted to. Finis. The end.

I’m pretty sure I still want to but I’ve also spent my entire teen and adult life telling myself that writing is not a valid pursuit. This is old, old baggage for me — I wanted to be a real writer long ago but pretty much everyone in my entire family and adults circle convinced me that I was being foolish. One might as well want to become a trapeze artist or a snake charmer. Hell, it might be easier to want to become a tightrope-walker. It would certainly be more lucrative to become a bus-driver, landscape gardener or — well, pretty much anything else. Only people with a very weak grasp on sanity and reality want to become authors. (This is apparently not uncommon. I am willing to bet at least one of you reading this has had a similar experience.)

Since I also have a few cases of baggage relating to sanity, the lack thereof and other fun things like that, and because I am who I am, all the negatives stayed in my head and all the positives (teacher & friend comments and encouragement, grades, actually getting published [albeit in a very small way], etc.)… did not. If I have a curse in life, it’s the inability to retain all the wonderful things people say to and do for me coupled with a photographic memory for all the negative things I have ever incurred. (Yes, incurred. People like me tend to think we’ve earned bad treatment.)

Getting back to the point, we all have a rational mind and mine does work rather well — provided it’s not being hijacked by Homer or my far less rational subconscious. (For those who care, I’m much more Jung than Freud, even though the old goat did make some valid points.) Rationally I know I shouldn’t care, that things that hurt were most often meant to help and even, in a weird way, support. Rationally I know that if I’m writing for myself, none of the above should matter. Rationally I know I’m perfectly capable of writing even for an audience (I’ve done it) and that it’s never too late to become an author as well as a writer if that’s what I really want. Life is not as either/or as we tend to think when we’re in our teens or even our 20s. Life may be short, but it’s also longer than we realise at that age.

I must love writing or I wouldn’t be here; I wouldn’t be constantly devising game backgrounds; I wouldn’t be writing out paragraphs, plots and people in my head as life goes by.

So I should just write. And I will. As soon as I break down this — I hope — last barrier of self-doubt and self-sabotage. So if I need to do 31 days of entertaining but seriously content-weak posts to break down that wall, that’s what I’ll do. Because I am writing for myself — and telling myself I’m writing for all of you (much though I appreciate you stopping by and love hashing stuff out in comments) is just another way to try to fail.

Now I’d better publish this before I wimp out.