rust and crust

I think that for a little while, my writing might suck. Like, terribly so. I'm sorry.

I think that there might be post after post after post of utter crap on deck. But I think that might be only way. I think I have to force myself to push through it, to believe that there even is an "it" to get through, and believe that on the other side is all the joy this blog once brought me.

I'm hung up on the need to always be, well, elliequent. Poignant. Impeccable with my word. But that's not gonna happen right now. I'm so fucking rusty. I'm going to ramble. I'm going to roam from subject to subject until I feel it's all out, that I'm caught up.

Honestly right now I have so much fear that even then I won't feel squared and ready to progress. I'm so scared that even after I babble my way to telling you what my life is like right now, what it's all about - that even then I won't feel the flow again. That even then I'll still be stuck, mystified as to why I don't anymore do this thing that I love.


Okay. I really am going to have to force myself just to put words together for a while. Just practice the simple act of telling a thing, editing a thing, editing a thing again, then pushing publish. Stream of stupidness, I once called it.


One of the women I work with does music on the side. With the help of a producer friend, she's put out a single and is working on another. She works part-time, sure, but the way she fights for her creative life -- I admire it so much. And I've told her as much. "You have to," she says. She knows I write --  did write. She knows it was my thing. Everyone does, but no one mentions it anymore. No one asks. Even Timo has given up on gently encouraging me back to it, because I'm so sore about it - so ashamed - that I've become defensive. 

It's awful. I break my own heart. I stand in my own way. I thwart my own happiness.

If I can just do ten minutes a day of writing anything -- of writing nothing of consequence. If I can just push ten minutes to twenty and maybe edge my way back, letter by letter, to where it feels good. Maybe that's possible. Maybe there is just a crust on top of something better.