Desperation Takes Hold

60

        This morning I was sitting here, staring at my computer and doing nothing, yet again. I can’t decide if it has to do with my somewhat erratic schedule, the infrequency of the meetings of my writer’s group, or this bloody awful god-damn town.

        I haven’t been able to finish anything for years now. Everything I start gets abandoned. And, to tell you the truth, I don’t think anyone presently associated with me in this place really gives a flying rat’s ass.

        Maybe it’s stress. The same stress that’s causing a few other problems.

        My focus shifts so fast I can’t even keep track of what I’m looking at or thinking about sometimes.

        Should I revise? Should I create? Should I give up? My head feels so full of bullshit. Useless concerns. Worry.

        I can’t even remember the last book I finished reading.

        That number: 60. It represents the number of documents on my computer with things written in them. There is one grouping in that 60 of about 6 documents that represents 270 pages of work - 69,566 words - it’s unfinished, and It’s dead.

        Another seven documents represents an attempt at a story. It only contains 5,541 words. I’m tempted to provide a word count for all 60 documents, but that just seems obsessive. It also wouldn’t include the words I’ve thrown out for this blog, various letters from the editor for the magazine, a few book reviews, and hundreds of other odd things I’ve puttered out and simply deleted.

        I’m getting to a point where it’s almost embarrassing to tell people I’m a writer and that I have an MFA in writing - - - because, by my measure, I’m not writing. Nothing is finished, therefore nothing is written.

        I could throw blame around, but that’s not very useful. The real fault, of course, lies with me. There’s something I’m failing to do: getting up early enough, sitting here long enough, allowing too many distractions, messing up my priorities.

        Hell, I don’t know anymore. Maybe I’ve positioned myself, philosophically, into a corner where I can’t get out. Maybe I’m really not the person I think I am. Maybe I am just a fake and a liar.

        And a failure.
        
        Of course my idea of a failure might be too broad compared to my narrow idea of success. At the risk of sounding wildly arrogant - the idea of being something other than what I want to be is horrifying. Do I then become what society wants me to be? My girlfriend? My boss? Do I blend in? Dissolve? Evaporate?