This blog has become like my journal but looking back I can't even see the person who wrote all this stuff right now. It's like a stranger has been posting here, someone that has little right to exist. I used to be able to look at my own writing and get some perspective of where I've been and where I'm going. Even as I seek to make the process of polishing my work more complex, I find all sorts of reasons to disconnect.
I think about how lucky I am to be able to do this while I'm looking back at the few thousand words I typed last night. I have this wondrous opportunity to seek this thing out, and yet I hate everything I did last night. Every sentence feels really lazy, like I was walking in a fog, beating myself with the stupid stick writing this stuff. I used to believe that the opportunity was enough to sustain me, but I really want to achieve some measure of success. I'd like to write something I really like, even if no one else does.
I pick up the the role of critic so easily, and I probably don't even deserve to be there. How can I attempt to judge the writings of another when I can't even be satisfied with my own? I doubt my creative direction all the time, this shouldn't be a new or scary feeling. Somehow, it's managed to wander up past scary to terrifying. I think I've been fooling myself thinking I could do this the way I envisioned. I'm not that kind of writer. I'm like a five-hundred pound bus driver thinking he could just pick up figure skating, utterly doomed to fail.
I set out in September to write fiction. Nothing I've done in the four months since fills me with the joy I hoped it would. Maybe it'll all look different in the morning. To think only a few hours ago I was telling my brother to lighten up and not be so hard on himself.
Brutal introspection is in the blood I reckon.