philosophical outpourings from the nether regions of my brain
first page of my ‘book’
or whatever you want to call it —
This has to be the 8 gazillionth attempt that I’ve tried to write a book. Story. journal. Whatever you wanna call it (yes I know that ‘wanna’ is not a word — fuck it). The problem is that nobody that I’m close to will put up with me writing about them because basically they’re afraid I’ll reveal stuff about them (which I might) but this makes it hard for me to write about anything at all because I can’t relax so then I give up writing — which makes me depressed — and then in desperation I just make up names for characters based on real people and promptly forget who they are supposed to be in real life and then eventually I go back to writing about REAL people who don’t want me to write about them and AGHGHGGHGHGHGHGHGHHG!!!!
Ugh. It’s a beautiful day. The trees are getting greener. I want to be outside soaking it all up but I’m here writing this ‘book.’ Whatever.
I heard from various writing workshops/teachers/youtube videos/well-meaning friends that by trying to imagine that I’m telling a story to ‘me’ — my ideal reader — then it might be able to write easier. For me, the best reader in the world is not me but whoever the guy or gal or non-binary person is who wrote…
