….must write have to write need to write, write write write, right? #wordvomit #bingewriting
It’s hungry and the only way to feed it is to pour the words out, vomit and explode them into the page as fast as you can before the ideas the language the colour the flow, it goes
It must be captured in that moment because it is beauty it is fleeting it is pure it is perfect It flows.
A torrent of picture described in 26 characters and punctuation! A emotional upheaval via ideal twist, a niche observance, and marketing wizardry splitting of the dross of daily writing from the rare jewel like brilliant moments where the intersection of subject matter knowledge intersects with creative/explosive epiphany while keeping in perfect alignmenty goodness with world vision, characters and plot arcs planned…
It is a sublime and spectacular events that is like a super-blood-redpunkblue-closertotheearththanever before moon it so rarely can happen.
Except then your gall ball removal uncorks the genie of words and you have them ALL THE TIMES. All of them. All of the times. Like the time you’re sleeping. Muse/bitch wakes you up to tell you that storyline that you just plotted, what if you changed the order? If you did this and this and this and did it this way….
About to hit yes on a phone call, but Muse-y warrior gets all dictator on your ass and demands you write that sentence down, finish that paragraph because if you don’t get it down now….
She doesn’t give two shits if it’s your boss. Or client. Or your editor.
WRITE WRITE WRITE RIGHT NOW
She is the storm.
The writer is exhausted because they are but the side effects of the battle between the Muse, so eloquent, so voluble, so verbose, so needy, so won’t shut up, versus the Pain. Sorry THE PAIN…
The pain of arthritis, that never-ever-ever-ending-friend who won’t ever fucking leave and the pain of the gallstone passed both conspire to keep the Writer down resting and
ssshhhh….. Now. If arthritis is the nanna who sit y your side knitting and telling you sage avice that is completely useless and unhelpful and you just wish she would fuck right off, then PAIN is her teenage grand-daughter who is overindulged by nanna and can do no wrong. She is all about expression. She is a cunt.
The Writer also conspires by doing dumb shit like interacting with her 2 Ridgebacks puppies, which do as puppies do, and jump and clump and pull and push. The writer keeps thinking that today it won’t hurt. The writer is a genius in every other way but cannot stop doing dumb shit when the body says nooooo.
The Writer and Arthritis have been in a war /friendszone relationship for over 25 years now. They know battle lines, actions versus reactions and how the other thinks acts and breaths. Besties. At least the familiar and the known.
But the new player Ghost of Gall Stone Passed has bought back an old player.
And old player pushed off the chess board or at least blocked like a rook in a corner… until now.
PAIN IS BACK BITCHES and she has more piercings than ever. Cranking the apolcayptic-Scottish-death-metal-with-monk-chanting-punk-mixup banshee noise she calls music, PAIN strides in, her docs and oversized safety pins clanking, kicks a chair into place and says
(look away now children or the easily offended)
OI CUNT. I’M BACK. YOURE A FUCKINGLAMEASSMOTHERFUCKER AINT YA
POOR PRICK SUX TO BE YOU RIGHT NOW
I’M NOT HERE TO MAKE IT ANY BETTER….
and then she switches tone and get down real low in your ear and you’re lying there as the Writer and you’re starting to sweat and not writhe in pain already given and the anticipation of a fresh batch in any form in any place will be a searing poker stabbed between two ribs stirring something deep within.
Will it be a twitch that spasms but not at regular intervals so you can’t plan and you can’t win and you can sleep and you cannot be comfortable? Will be a searing stab inside the lining of your bones?
As PAIN leans in, her lips practically touching your ear and she stage whispers…
If you won’t stay still I will fuck you up. I will fuck you up so bad and so many ways you will wish for death. I will do things to you that you can’t describe and then I will make it worse. Do not mess with us.
The Writer sees the other Evil Bitch in this horror story, knitting needles held ready to defend….who? the Writer is not sure what, or who, the needles are for and fear overcomes…
They have formed an alliance, PAIN and Arthritis. The punk teenager with a gift for pain and the old lady who is as deadly with her knitting needles as she is with her tongue and her inability to shut up about my joints; they are now A TEAM. A formidable army of ineptitude, inability and sanctioned violence upon the body of the Writer.
The Ghost of Gall Stone Passed howls with laughter’s that echoes down tomb like halls and the cold stone hallways to finally reach the heart of the Writer. The maniacal cackle echoes around hollowly, sounding like lost dreams… lost time… lost words…
It is suddenly chilly, lonely, deserted, creepy, malignant, eerie, and echo-y. The Writer is alone with the Ghouls suddenly and aware that there needs to be caution…
The Writer is willing, please no more I will be good I will rest I will remind to myself and I will accept what you are trying to tell me.
The Writer tries to makes deals with the Devils, or the Angels, never sure which, and pleads that being good will return good favour from them all. Please?
The Muse stirs….
