500 Bastard Words
Reading Time: 2 minutes
I can barely think of anything to write about. I’m forced to sit and stare at the screen and feel like the biggest failure. Even if I finish this damned thing what then? Submit it to the world. Then I can get all of the messages about how bad it is. Some troll is out there waiting to pounce. He’s staring and scrolling through his social media accounts, waiting, watching, seething.
He arrives at my work on his troll quest. My hard work. My shitty hard work and he attacks. He attacks the very thing I am scared he will attack. It is ruthless. I’m ashamed. I’m beside myself with this feeling again. Why do I do this? What am I hoping to gain? There is nothing to gain. This will amount to nothing. Stop and come back down here. You’re going to slip and fall and hurt yourself and everyone will point and laugh and spit.
I love my work and I hate my work.
I don’t care about him or his thoughts, I think of the mob that picks up on his bad cues and jumps on board the troll train.
“Look at this guy!” they will say.
They will not cease:
“What a pretentious asshole. Who does this guy think he is? Writing some attention seeking nonsense and posting it for the world to see.”
I will fixate on the lone negative comment. I will fixate on the low number of views and consider that maybe, just maybe I am trash. I am not special, I’m not meant to do anything. I will grind away at the other things that I hate because we are not supposed to rise above it. I am meant for nothing. I stand for nothing. I hate myself.
Why do I keep doing this? The garbage that spews from my mouth and from my pencil is too lofty. Will anyone buy a word of it? Will they all find out that I’m a fraud? Meditation and exercise and riding my motorcycle is supposed to alleviate this. It now brings it into crystal clear focus.
I can see myself. I can see myself inside and out. The third person. I am my own troll asking myself “who the hell do I think I am?” I am the one saying why am I wasting my time doing this every day. I am embarrassing myself. I’m floating above myself wondering what else I could be getting done in a practical sense if I would only leave this damned dream alone. Why?
But then:
It festers and it itches and it pokes and it whispers to me and I cannot ignore it. I trick myself. I have to scratch it. Resistance. I will sit down. I will stare at this damned screen. I will punch this keyboard. I will write the words. I will hate them and love them. I will highlight them all. Delete it all. Go again. I will get out my damned five hundred bastard words. Every day. Share.
