Writer's Block

Its 4:38 AM on a Friday night/Saturday morning. Im sitting on my couch with my laptop resting on my legs, and I can't seem to get any damn words on the page. I sped home with an idea burning a hole in my head. Anxious and excited; I ran up the stairs, booted up my laptop to start making this GRAND idea in my head into a reality. Then two hours and 8 cigarettes went by, and everything I typed on that page was pure SHIT! So now I'm on here, incredibly frustrated, bitching to the 28-83 of you who actually read my angry rants. Each and every one of us knows what writer's block feels like. Doesn't matter if its blocking you from writing the next greatest piece of fiction, or an essay for a class, it just fucking SUCKS.

(William S. Burroughs or what I wanted to look like in the past 3 hours)

Last night my good friend and writing mentor introduced me as a writer to some pretty big name people in the LA writing scene. That was probably the first time I truly felt affirmed that I was, in some way, a WRITER. But how can I be a writer if I can't fucking write most of the TIME?

Writing is about freeing yourself of your own opinions. Writing frees you from your ALLEGIANCE to everything and anything. To be able to write, you need to be able to win the struggle of actually freeing yourself from the INHERENT pains of your own mind. To write you need to be able to be IMMORAL.(read my last post on here) We all are immoral in some way, and to truly be free and state your truest opinion you cannot hide the flaws in your morality.

I'm not AFRAID of offending anyone with my writing, nor am I afraid of my actual values projected in my writing. But I do want my writing to be loved and appreciated. And, as hypocritical as this sounds, I want people to be offended by my writing and to HATE it even. Because that would mean it moved you in some way.

"As if this great outburst of anger had purged all my ills, killed all my hopes, I looked up at the mass of signs and stars in the night sky and laid myself open for the first time to the benign indifference of the world - and finding it so much like myself in fact so fraternal, I realized that I'd been happy, and that I was still happy. For the final consummation and for me to feel less lonely, my last wish was that there should be a crowd of spectators at my execution and that they should greet me with cries of hatred." - Albert Camus, The Stranger

I KNOW I want to write. I know what I want to write. I just need to write.
FUCK WRITER'S BLOCK.


Go read my poem on here called "Blue Chicago Moon" with the thought of writer's block lingering in the back of your mind.

But before you do that, listen to this:
"so you want to be a writer" - Charles Bukowski