Dear Diary, Here I Give You a Break-Up Letter of Sorts

WRITER’S BLOCK: a never-ending story littered in excuses and various appeals. I’ve spent the past few months doing what I’ve always done: asking people to help fix this. Give me solutions and easily applicable tonics, serums, elixirs and pomades. Metaphor after metaphor and still not a word.


My mom used to tell me to write about everything/ write everything down. A perfectionist, I taught myself to only write down or at least consider writing down anything that I could craft into what I considered a “passable”(see: meticulously dense/poetic/ adjectives) sentence. And now I’m starting to think: maybe I’ve missed out on my life because I didn’t think it was important enough, that my observations weren’t special or nuances enough, that the fucking sky wasn’t blue or black enough. Well… fuck enough!

Nothing has to be special or good. I decided that I’m breaking up with writer’s block, which is actually ok for more than just the fact that I can get back to the serious business of expression (I used to be happy when I wrote something? I thought that maybe it was good???) but because a break up gets to be messy.

So maybe I should start with the first thing. Breaking up with this feeling that I can’t write. Because that’s really it: I feel my hand clench into a fist or like my fingers don’t know where to fall in relation to each other on the keyboard and I am holding back from deleting everything this very second…

“It’s ok if your writing is shit” I keep telling myself. “It’s ok for now” I remind myself.

I feel like I’ve gone into a time machine and I have reverted to my former teenager writer self, excep I have my current opinions and sensibilities which creates a somewhat hilarious clash. It would be a patent lie to deny that my teenage self thought she had my opinions and sensibilities. And for that, I guess I have to hug my selves.  This is more than just breaking up with my writer’s block (rather, I’ve decided, there is no other choice. Either I do this now or I risk doing what I’ve always said I hate and stagnate into a swamp of talktalktalk and no praxis… I will not be Artex, goddamnit!)

What I have really come to hate the most about writer’s block is the unrelenting feeling that I am a hypocrite. How can anyone ask my opinion on anything they do what I can’t even do what I thought of as the only viable skill in my repertoire? And this feeling is nagging in the same way that a bad habit is: you know you can do something about it, but whatever right? Really easy to brush off because you’ll get to it anyway. Procrastination is writer’s block’s favorite fuck buddy and after that nothing need occur as they embrace each other and smoke your lungs and mind into rot.

I’m not buying it anymore, so in a moment of intensified narcissism, I present to you: Stories of My Recent Life.

It’s been really cold these days which means everyone is sneezing and coughing (seriously, the other day I thought a woman was going to collapse next to me or at the very least cough herself into a vomiting spell). Nobody want to go to work and everyone’s muscles ache and oh-have-you-heard-so-and-so’s-on-a-new-diet and check-out-this-insanely-rigorous-workout-regimen. All fo that good old-fashioned nonsense. I started to read and article about how women are more likely than men to trust (Believe) in their horoscopes because they’ve internalized the sexist myth that they, as female beings, have no control over their lives and as such we should bank on the stars because it’s an ancient practice. My commitment to reading the whole article was exhausted by the third paragraph as the voice in my head shouted “BUT WHO AM I TO ARGUE WITH THE STARS?!”

It’s been cold enough and polluted enough and I’ve been tired enough to not see stars. So where are they? If they want to fight I ask them to please present themselves to me (and I’m sure they know I’m the one hiding, and in turn blaming them for my woes).


A Letter to My Alter-Ego, or Perhaps an Imagined Person to “Fall in Love With”On Distance

Yesterday, I really did just sit on the couch and start crying. When I told my old poetry professor about it and he asked what my family thought I just told him the truth, and the truth is that I didn’t let anybody notice because my crying while sitting on the couch on a perfectly regular, American, suburban southwestern day is not about being noticed. And it is most certainly not about having someone asking you about why you are crying or what is “wrong” with you.

It is about having a disconnect in every part of my body, especially on the outside.  It kills me to imagine the “remoteness” of a “real” “connection.” What really kills is the perception that in order to “have” (here: posses, experience) something “real” (what, is this capital T, Truth? Bullshit.) an inordinate amount of distance or pain is required by the person wanting and the desire itself. This, this perception is in itself, fucking stupid. The truth is I feel lied to. And now, I’m writing about either as a way to test myself or as a way to maybe lie to myself further. Continue reading