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July 03, 2017 - 227 words
A blank page stares back into my blank eyes. My mind is blank. Cannot think of anything to write. That’s how a lot of these have been going lately. I stare and procrastinate and I don’t write anything. With each entry the pressure to write better increases: write something better than the last because we’re almost done. ~20 left. What will those last twenty be? Will they be any good? I write a lot of weird stuff, a lot of funny stuff, and a lot of serious stuff. I don’t know where my voice lies yet. I think it’s unique and unapologetically confident at times but I think it’s unfocused and I would like to merge all three of those styles into something worth reading. I run out of steam at 1000 words.
I like the feeling that comes from locking in, zoning out, and watching the writing write itself. I’m sure every writer knows that feeling. That happens sometimes. For example, that is not happening now. This is total fucking agony. Every word is a disaster, a pointillist tapestry that turns into a weird self-referential complaint about writing but somehow I managed to turn that into something worth writing about. Worth writing, not worth reading. Stop reading this. It sucks. Alright let’s wrap it up. Let’s give it a little polish and send this one off.