Warlords and Writer's Block

If I were at home, this would be a day where I'd open the Livejournal window (well, really the Dreamwidth window, which crossposts to Livejournal, because Livejournal is a senile and dying animal with bad coding) and wind up staring at the screen and smoking more than writing. I always open the posting window even if I know I have nothing to say. It is a ritual and it must be maintained, if only in name.

Seriously, I ain't got nothing. (Double negative? Meh. I say DOUBLE AWESOME!) Or if I did want to write, I'd write about how I don't want to write anything. Writing on demand is a special kind of hellacious child to wrangle. It cries and stamps its feet and goes all limp and noodley whenever you try to pick it up to bodily haul it off the playground. It holds its breath and passes out and hits a table on the way down and all you want to do is sell it off to some passing war-lord who might have a use for whiny child-labor.

(This is part of why I don't want children.)

But we're not talking about kids. We're talking about writing. About how sometimes you just can't make it do what you want to, and sometimes you don't care that you can't make it do what you want to, because you don't even KNOW what you want it to do. You just want it to leave you alone. To stop following you into the bathroom pestering you for ice cream and bedtime stories. To stop filling your head with disembodied phrases that might, possibly, make a decent poem if it gave you anything else, to which of course it never does. You just want to put your hands over your ears and go "LA LA LA CAN'T HEAR YOU!" but that doesn't do any good because the voice is inside your head.

Writing is a bad lover. She cooes over you with small gifts of affection before kicking your ass out of bed because the roses you got her were yellow, not red. Writing is reading the best book you've ever read in your WHOLE LIFE only to find out that the last chapter was ripped out by some malicious book-ripping fairy. Writing is watching the coolest, most complex and intriguing movie you've ever seen only to have the last two minutes be the main character's waking up and going "It was a dream!"

And maybe more than anything, writing is coming up with bad metaphors, over and over again, to come up with absolutely nothing. Your frustration doesn't even come off as interesting. It just comes off as run-of-the-mill and indulgent. Writing isn't going to get you laid. It's not going to buy food for you or run a hot bath for you or make your no-good-cheating-husband love you.

It's so goddamn useless in the long run.

And it's still the only thing I've got. So I write. I write and sometimes I hate that I write because I hate that it's the only thing I know how to do when I don't know what else to do. Sometimes I think I would rage-burn everything I've ever written in my entire life, but that'd do no good because hey, this is the internet and everything lives forever here.

So I write. I just fucking write. Not because I'm good at it. Not because I want to. I write because it's what I do.

Warlords have no use for blogs, anyways. Pity.