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July 26, 2013
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I have conversations with myself.

This is about my writing process. Just a heads up.

Ok, so my writing has suffered lately. I’ve been writing less and less, shorter and shorter, with continuously more depressing material. Nobody wants to hear depressing poems, get it together, man. I was thinking about writing a new poem. Let’s see how this holds up to my current standards:

“No winners. No beginnings. No stopping.”

…well that went well. While many people define their abilities by how well they’re doing, I’ve found that my writing is defined by my weakest moments. I wait for people to read, and if nobody reads, if nobody takes any interest, then I realize that I’ve screwed up. If I do well, I just wait for people to stop caring about that thing.

I judge how good I am by how many people give a damn about what I’m saying. You can tell me all day that I should be writing for myself alone and that what other people think makes no difference. If that’s the case, then every writer who’s ever lived that’s published a book or a poem was doing it for no reason. The fact remains that money, fame, and every other “evil” thing makes a difference. I’m sorry if that upsets you, but I never understood why money and fame are so “evil” in the first place. They’re things that make us feel good. Some people use those things to bad ends, but perhaps there’s a gentleman somewhere mixing songs by Black Sabbath and Mr. Rogers. ANYTHING can be used to bad ends.

People have asked me where I get my ideas. I have no idea. I don’t have a secret pocket located on my person, containing the secrets of the universe. There’s no Nighthawks style bar I attend to think about the complexities of modern life. I just get ideas. They fly in from nowhere. Hopefully, some of them stick.

My biggest fear, in terms of my writing, is that I will simply run out of ideas. I’m not talking about writer’s block. I’m talking about the day where I have a hundred ideas, and continuously come to the conclusion that I’ve already written all of them. My brain will still keep working, but nothing new will be coming out. It’s stagnation. It’s the living death.

Perhaps I’ve reached that point already. I mean, I have a lot of stuff that I have fully planned out in my head as it is. My friend MercyTheRose is currently developing my comic book for publishing. I have that planned out a LONG ways away. How about after that though? I used to spend all my time thinking, and I don’t have that sort of time any more. I mean, I HAVE that sort of time, but I don’t spend it in boredom like I used to.

I think that boredom is the most important element missing from modern life. Nobody can sit back and let the world pass them by anymore. We are always being bombarded with an onslaught of music and television, and op-eds about how Netflix is changing television. Waiting rooms no longer contain any waiting, just 12 people buried in their iPhones. This is not to say that waiting is inherently good, but I often have my best thoughts when I’m bored. When we lose our ability to wait, it’s gone for a long time, and nobody can wait that long.

All this to say, perhaps my ideas come from unstimulating, pure boredom. I just can’t sit around these days. Perhaps that’s why my writing is suffering.
I wanted to write about this. No idea why.
:iconmewhugz:
MewHugz Featured By Owner Jul 26, 2013
This was interesting~
I love to write as well, but depressing pieces seem to be all I can write at the moment.
Oh and I seem to get my ideas for what I write when listening to water flow or seeing animals play. XD
Strange, I know! But all well~  
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