Moments of adulthood

I've been having a lot of trouble putting my ideas down to words lately. My first impulse is to say, 'I don't know what it is,' but I do. It's not lack of motivation. (Although no one ever accused me (successfully) of being industrious.) It's not even lack of inspiration. (In my head, I have things that have been festering for a while and are itching to be picked off like the scab on my wrist (on a side note, hot melted cheese on skin is not conducive to a good cooking experience. It's much like molten lava, minus the whole my hand melting off part)) It's not doubt in my abilities. Well, part of it is doubt in my talent, but in the sense that I think that I am horrible and I suck and I need to grow my hair out long and slick it to the side and get a tattoo of a tear falling for my eye on my cheek and chant Dashboard Confessional lyrics at a spoken word open mic. No, fortunately, my problem is not because I fail in life (yes, emo = fail. You dress like a hobo and pay two hundred dollars to do it. That makes you fail in life. I'm sorry), my problem is that when I write something, I feel like what I write needs to be profound. Like the greatest shit of all time (GSOAT). Like my mythical novel that I've been writing and rewriting for the past year. I am still on the opening section. It's not that I haven't been working on it. I have. But for each section I write, I like it for a day, and then read it the next and fall out of love with the words that I was so enamored for. Then I tear it apart (metaphorically, usually I just highlight and press backspace) and start again. Repeat. Repeat again. And again.

You can see that I have a problem here. I don't know why I put this pressure on myself to be such a perfectionist. Writing, when I did it before, used to come more naturally to me. I would see a story during a run or in a dream, and I'd be able to put words down to tell that story. When I close my eyes and see the images I do, I have a vibrant and vivid story, one full of rounded characters and a compelling plot. And when I write it down, it feel like I bastardize the vibrancy and live in to a pile of horse shit, the kind that has flies buzzing around it.

I know. I know. Masterpieces were not painted in one day or one sitting. Great writers toil for years to hone their craft. I'm like a hungry child at a buffet that has brought back too much food because he doesn't realize how much is too much quite yet. Or a freshman girl at frat party being handed cup after cup of jungle juice. Or me at an open bar. I need to keep my expectations small and plow the shiteous struggle of mediocrity.

I guess in the end, I write, because I am my biggest fan. I want to write something that I would enjoy reading myself. And I don't think I really have written anything yet that I feel that way about. But I know I got to move on. Stick to one idea and try not to tinker with it too much. Keep it simple.

Dammit, my scab is itching again.