Welcome, gentle readers, to another riveting episode of Jason Uses Bandwidth To Complain About How He Doesn’t Get Anything Done Instead Of Getting Something Done.
Turns out there are downsides to uncapped data.
Spoke to a friend tonight who is apparently doing a writing course with their partner and they’ve gotten into the habit of writing every day. It sounds good. It sound productive. It sounds like the kind of thing that only really works if you have external accountability. I remember a couple of weeks ago when I finally got my supervisor for Masters assigned to me, instead of a crushing feeling of despair at all the work I was going to have to do I actually felt motivated to do even more work than I was planning on. Spoilers: it didn’t quite turn out that way – but there’s still time. Just not motivation. But time. And hey, it’s not like I’ve ever wasted any of that before …
I mean that was going to be a self-deprecating joke but it actually just made me feel really depressed.
New angry plan: 500 words a day, and I swear by Dame Helen Mirren if I have to resort to clickbait parodies to prompt myself then that’s what I’ll fucking do.
Anger isn’t quite the same as motivation, but it’s gonna have to do for now. These 500 words a day aren’t going to be devoted to any particular project, other than just getting me to fucking write, to break out of whatever repression, embarrassment, self-censoring, whatever it is that’s keeping me from writing stuff.
You know what really sucks is that I fucking had this, I was rocking this shit a couple of months ago with my shitty werewolf YA thing and now it’s just fucking gone. I can’t remember how to do it, how to get into that zone, or what made me want to to begin with. I wrote about it and I went back and read those posts but there wasn’t enough there to lead me back into it. I was just blathering on about how great it was that it was happening, and it was, but just UGH it’s so fucking frustrating. I had it. I had it in my fucking hand, and now it’s gone and it’s like it was never fucking there to begin with.
No. Okay. What was it? Fucking seriously, what was it? Was it not having an MA looming over my life and giving me something to feel guilty about? Was it the fact that it wasn’t quite Winter yet and well that can’t be right June is pretty much the start of Winter in NZ? Was it that I was feeling like I had more going on in my life in general, and therefore writing was for enjoyment rather than trying to stave off the bitter cold of years of habituated self-isolation? Was it that I just lucked out? I really don’t want it to be that I just lucked out and that I can’t re-create that in-the-zone-ness; I want this to be scientific and repeatable, predictable, quantifiable. I want it back.
519; going good so far.
But this isn’t the kind of writing I want to get good at doing; I’m already good at this stream-of-consciousness bullshit. It’s easy. Because it’s not really about anything. And the writing I want to do should therefore probably be designated “writing-about”, because one day this skill I’m going to spend the next however the fuck long it takes honing and perfecting is going to be transferred to a novel, or a screenplay, or some other long-form writing that requires fancy things like narrative structure because it is supposed to be about something or other, because I enjoy that shit, but it takes so much fucking time. And yes technically this post is about something but it’s about how I’m annoyed at how I’m not writing about other things and have no motivation and, you know what, I’ve written about this so many fucking times that maybe there’s a story in here. Maybe this is the perfect clusterfuck of Refusing The Call, and will serve as a wonderful mire for some hero or other to wade through until they finally reach the wise old mentor again. Or, as is more likely, put in their own hard work and grab another mentor’s attention from the effort they’re exerting.
Just means they have to, y’know, exert. And the mentor in this case is motivation. There is no greater teacher than inspiration that you can run alongside for months, even years, because when we commit to doing something we learn what it means to commit to that thing, and discover who we are as the person who has committed to it. These are the lessons that dig in deep and leave stretch-marks on your soul. Even when it feels like they don’t stick, just like all of my lessons feel like they never even took place in my life, it’s just that there’s a whole lot of congealed bullshit covering them up. Underneath it’s still raw and traced and traceable. You just need to chip away at the surface to rediscover it – and, of course, to open yourself up to being marked with new lessons.
Just gotta do things.
I hate everything.