“My personality doesn’t work without fame” – Russel Brand
Insomnia again. It’s 2am. No, it’s 1am, cause its daylight savings time, and I get an extra hour. I’m awake, my heart is racing. I have fucking hives. FUCKING HIVES.
The thing that really set off the hives was looking at my bank account. But that was just a matchstick. Spinning thoughts, spinning spinning spinning… so many ideas popping through my head constantly, spinning round and round and round. I can barely keep up with myself. The throughts, they bounce around like a bouncy ball in a zero gravity room with very thin atmosphere. Just keeps going and going and going, bounce bounce bounce. Like that stupid bouncing bundle of straight lines screensaver.
Jessus fuck. Ok, I need to write. Every day. Need to, in order to be sane. But I also need to be accomplishing and making progress on zillion other projects pressing at me all the time, pressing at me to much. They’re all bouncing around in my head, bounding at different rates… it’s a whole big mess.
When I sit down and try to focus on one thing, I have a giant fucking panic attack about all of the other things that I’m not doing. I imagine that this is something that a lot of people feel rather often. In my case, it is extreme and acute. Like a gigantic head stuck in the birth canal. Like fifty heads trying to be pass through the same birth canal all at the same time. The perineum is tearing. I get a zillion brilliant ideas every day that I desperately want to accomplish… SO MANY! No seriously. But when I sit down to actually focus on one thing and follow-through and take action, I stop short. I can’t go on. Can’t focus. I start to shake, anxiety grips me.
I can barely hold it together enough to squeeze out some rough sketch of the idea that doesn’t quite get all the way there. Over and over again. The people in my life can attest to this. It is their most common biting criticizm of me. It hurts. It hurts so much, mostly because I ALREADY FUCKING KNOW THIS. That’s exactly the thing I’m struggling with, you FUCKING ASSHOLE.
It’s at this point that I’m rolling around on the floor, bawling and screaming like an insane idiot, clutching at myself and dry heaving. Whatever poor person happens to have the priviledge of seeing me in such a state is screeming back at me, “I don’t know how to help you, and I’m running out of sympathy really quick.”
If all of the ping pong balls inside my head would possibly chill the fuck out and calm down, maybe, maybe, I could actually focus long enough to follow one path for a while. But left to my own devices, I have no control over them. I’m lost in outer space, adrift in a sea of potential maybe sort of half formed brilliantly world-altering insights. It’s enough to drive a person properly mad.
What I really need is a midwife. To help me birth myself. I need a whole fucking team of midwives.
My personality doesn’t work without fame. Doesn’t work without other people. There are so many ideas passing through my head, constantly, I can’t keep up with them.
I can keep up with a person. Like, getting an art commission. Fuck yeah, I can work with that. There are a zillion things I could be working on, but This Person is asking me to do This Project by This Deadline. Outside stimulation.
November is National Novel Writing Month. I thought I was going to use those word count quotas to work on Son of the Wanderer, and maybe have it actually fleshed out into something proper by the end of the month. That’s still a great idea. I’m still gonna work on my novel.
But holy fuck, I can’t constrain myself to just writing on that one thing. I’ll start to hate it. TOO MANY OTHER THINGS BOUNCING AROUND INSIDE MY HEAD. Everything I write will feed back into the novel anyways.
Yup, I’ve written myself out here, but I still have hives. Still have insomnia. So I’m gonna go work on that novel for a while, see if I can’t eventually nod off…
*After reading this post, a reasonable person might conclude that I am completely insane. They would not be entirely wrong.
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