Problems With Prose and Poetry

Currently, I'm drawing a lot more than I'm writing.  Really, I've been drawing so much more than usual that I'm prepared to hit the wall soon that I inevitably run into when I've reached my creative dam.  Right now it's a steadily flowing river of unrealized ideas and half-hearted sketches.  My hope is that by the end of the Summer, I'll have a full-force plan of action with which to carry out some crazy ideas.  Why can't I just do it now though?  Hm...

 

Whatever, what I really wanted to write about today was how little I've been writing.  Well, creatively at least.  the last sort of short story I wrote was in January?  If there was one later than that, please let me know, I'm slacking.  There's a few things that I was working on for various reasons or another, but like most things I start: I didn't finish.  Frustrating as it is, it doesn't phase me at all that much.  Maybe because writing isn't a profession of mine, but a hobby?  Like most hobbies of mine, I often wonder if I have the chops to do these sort of things full-time.  Without validation of any kind and without any sort of self-confidence in the first place, accomplishing a small task like finishing a short story longer than a full page seems daunting.  It's no secret that I fear failure, so maybe that's part of the reason why.

 

Really, I should look back at the stories I wrote while still in high school.  Having done it before, it's not pretty.  Most of the prose is laden with words and stolen lyric-phrases that ought to not be there in the first place.  It's awkward, immature, and ultimately self-serving.  Did I find it therapeutic at the time?  Definitely.  Do I want to accomplish the same things now that I did then?  Not at all. 

 

Back then, I was more apt to be self-pitying, broody, and a pain in the general arse.  Why I can't whip myself into as much of a teenage fit these days is probably because like most artists, the creative juices thrive on pain.  Without much personal pain, you can't throw as much down on the paper.  These days, I find more inspiration in joy, in other things that I see or read, or in music that I hear.  It could be that's why it's easier for me to lay a line down on the paper than a story.  Perhaps I'm just not intuitive enough to flesh out the middle when all I have is a beginning and an end? 

 

When I started the blog, it was more content-driven, as I had more friends that actually read the thing.  It's mutated somewhat into something more personal and its current carnation is something of a place for me to practice what I feel like, actually publish it, and review whatever past work that's here.  Since I don't have a lot to look at lately, it appears it's time for another overhaul.  Creative and web-wise.

 

Nose to the grindstone, I'm working here....