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run for it
Oct. 7th, 2006 12:31 ami don't wanna. i don't wanna. i don't wanna. I Don't Wanna. I DON'T WANNA!
i don't want to write this damn play. but i'm making myself sick worrying about it. i'd feel so much better if it was just done. i'd be so relieved, relaxed. the one ton gorilla lifted from my shoulders. i know i'd feel fantastic if it were in my rearview mirror instead of blocking the road. but i just can't seem to bring myself to write the fucking thing. i can't even get started. i can't even squeeze out a single scene. not a solitary sentence. and i have no idea why. other than the fact i'd rather be doing just about anything else. including writing this.
i suspect that it has little to do with the play itself. i'm scared, anxious, tired, overworked, misunderstood, stressed, and pulled in a thousand directions. i just want to ease my sickness with distraction. everytime i stop and think i feel it all crushing in on me and i can't breathe. and lord knows that writing is all about stopping, getting quiet, and thinking. which is why this play is like the bogeyman. if only i could shake it all off. the weariness of too many restless nights and long hours. the various fears and apprehensions. the need to run.
maybe that's what i should do. run. maybe i should strap on my tennis shoes and run. just walk out the front door, point myself down the road and run until it burns and i want to spill my guts all over the pavement. run until i'm spent. maybe i can sweat out the poison in my brain. maybe i can fight chemistry with chemistry and reset myself for a while. because while i know much of this is in my head, i also know my brain has gotten stuck in a rut of anxiety. this feeling of looming fear has become biological, a conditioned pattern. so maybe i will run from my play. maybe i will run for a time. maybe in running away i'll get closer to where i'm going.
i don't want to write this damn play. but i'm making myself sick worrying about it. i'd feel so much better if it was just done. i'd be so relieved, relaxed. the one ton gorilla lifted from my shoulders. i know i'd feel fantastic if it were in my rearview mirror instead of blocking the road. but i just can't seem to bring myself to write the fucking thing. i can't even get started. i can't even squeeze out a single scene. not a solitary sentence. and i have no idea why. other than the fact i'd rather be doing just about anything else. including writing this.
i suspect that it has little to do with the play itself. i'm scared, anxious, tired, overworked, misunderstood, stressed, and pulled in a thousand directions. i just want to ease my sickness with distraction. everytime i stop and think i feel it all crushing in on me and i can't breathe. and lord knows that writing is all about stopping, getting quiet, and thinking. which is why this play is like the bogeyman. if only i could shake it all off. the weariness of too many restless nights and long hours. the various fears and apprehensions. the need to run.
maybe that's what i should do. run. maybe i should strap on my tennis shoes and run. just walk out the front door, point myself down the road and run until it burns and i want to spill my guts all over the pavement. run until i'm spent. maybe i can sweat out the poison in my brain. maybe i can fight chemistry with chemistry and reset myself for a while. because while i know much of this is in my head, i also know my brain has gotten stuck in a rut of anxiety. this feeling of looming fear has become biological, a conditioned pattern. so maybe i will run from my play. maybe i will run for a time. maybe in running away i'll get closer to where i'm going.
