Yesterday I attended part of the AWP annual conference which was held here in Boston. I had an absolutely fabulous time and wish I had been able to attend the entire conference. Next year in Seattle and for sure in Minneapolis ’15.
While at a reading for Augusten Burroughs-I do so love that crazy man’s writing!-I finally realized why I’ve stopped writing this blog, as well as stopped writing all together: I HATE IT! What I mean is that I love to write, but I hate this motherfucking blog! I can’t figure out how to make it look polished and fresh. I can’t even get the damn Facebook icon to work. Every single time I sit down to work on this thing I end up incredibly tense, in more pain than I already am in, and so goddamn angry it takes every last bit of self-control I have, and that ain’t saying much, not to send this laptop sailing across the room.
Coupled with the zero blog progress I can’t even remember the last time I worked on my book. I don’t even enjoy writing anymore. The entire act of trying to be a published author has made writing miserable. So far I’ve been told that my genre needs an agent to get a book deal and I can’t get an agent without a body of published work. Armed with this aggravating news I decided to put my book on hold, start a blog, and write smaller pieces in the hopes of publication in journals and magazines. The complications of my life due to the health issues, worrying about the business of writing, and attempting to set up a blog which I clearly know dick about has given me whiskey pen in the worst way. Not only do I but I feel guilty about it, but it’s as if I have a noose hanging over my head threatening me every day that I don’t work. The guilt only makes me resentful and in turn I resent writing. I’m caught in a negative feedback loop.
Writing is now one more chore that I have to contend with, similar to calling the health insurance company. Believe me that’s something I’ve been putting off for two weeks and will require both a Xanax and vodka when I finally call. It’ll most likely result in a pain pill too because stress elevates my pain. This, my friends, is why so many writers are crazy and are alcoholics.
I’m signing off now. My laptop is safe for tonight, but my liver is not.