So if anyone ever wonders what Keith writes during NanoWrimo when it’s the last day and writer exhaustion has hit max levels. (Warning, unedited, and uncensored.) This made me laugh today when I had Siri read some of my stuff back to me on the way to work.
My brain was dead, and I couldn’t see anything. It was all black now. There was nothing in my brain. I could feel myself breathing. Could feel my body. But I just kept moving and doing what I had to do. Or what everyone told me that I had to do. But my brain was dead. It’d died a long long time ago. And here I was going through the motions of living, and breathing. But I didn’t really feel alive. Because my brain was dead. And I couldn’t tell the story that was in my brain, because it was all dead. And there was nothing in it. And there was no story any more. And the story was that I had died, and nothing felt real anymore. Nothing was important, and nothing got me going or got me excited. I was dead inside and the story was dead with me.
And here I sat, and I blamed everyone around me for killing my story. I knew that all I had to do was sit down and write the story. But the story wouldn’t let me. The story was an undead zombie with a gnarled bloody hand wrapped around my ankle, dragging me down and stopping me from writing it. The story hated my guts, and I hated the story. We both were undead crawlers wandering around, pretending to be something. Pretending to be alive and awake, and able to feel and have emotions. But we both had none of those things. And the story was a stone cold bitch, and I was a unfeeling jerk. And we could never be together. We could never live long enough to complete each other. And the more I thought about the story and about myself, the more I wanted that cool alive feeling that I used to have. That feeling that I knew years ago, that I felt years ago, that someday I’d write the story, and the story would grab you by the ass and never let you go. That it would be so damn cool, and so real, so alive.
The story sucks. Every time I sit down and write the story it just fucking sucks. And I don’t have the cool feeling anymore. I’m just rotting inside and the story is rotting with me. There’s nothing here and nobody home. I’m going to go into my old age never having succeeded in capturing my dream. My dream is dead and I’m an old fucking man now, and I have nothing to show for it. Because my whole life I’ve been telling people that I’m a writer. And my whole life I’ve been lying to myself and everyone around me. I’m not a fucking writer. I’m a survivor. I’m so damn worried about surviving that I never stopped and did the very thing that I wanted most in life. And so here I am old and I’ve wasted my brain on stupid shit. And I haven’t a college education and I don’t know my english enough to write well enough, to be good enough. All I can do is write a bunch of shit that turns out to be total crap. And its not alive and it doesn’t grip you and it doesn’t do what it’s supposed to do. I can’t fucking get this working. And I’m fucking hack. And I’m a loser because I don’t have it. I don’t have what it takes. I don’t have the real talent. I don’t have the real thing. It’s all crap in here. And I was supposed to have it. I can feel it. I know it was here. I just waited too long, and I don’t know what to do now.