Undone by my own non fictions.

Okay.

Please pardon this entry. I’m trying to work through some things and I have a situation.

So I have this bunch of essays,  I forget how many but I have them. I crowd sourced money to have them edited/get me help with them from someone I trust implicitly.

She thinks they are great. She asked the right questions.

Now here is the problem.

They are raw bleeding cheese grater on my nerves bloody.

I know I’m not afraid to be bloody, I’m not afraid to tell embarrassing stories that make me look like a dick. These are about me mainly, stuff I feel, my hurt feefees etc etc but, I cannot get them rewritten.

I start, I read the rewrites I’ve done, I rage,  I want to throw up.

Rationally I love them. They are the sort of thing I like to read. Some of them are about fairly hellish things, awful things no one really wants to hear but that I believe some people need to hear. Lost loves, my undying creepy desire for Courtney Love.

But they upset me.

I have these bodily reactions I can’t chase down to alleviate (except when they make me have to pee, true story, sometimes they just make me have to pee) and I don’t entirely know how to power through.

The pain and the stupid feelings tell me I’m on the right track. Some shit needs to hurt. For instance. When one of my best friends Od’d when I was a youngster, I went and got multi strike branded.

It was awful, my boob smelled like bacon and I was hungry,  I wanted to shit my pants and get fucked all at the same time.

That being what it is, I fully believe that it had to hurt. Otherwise what would have been the point?

So why can’t I do it?

I don’t want to barf on my keyboard (I don’t have one of those fold up washable ones), I don’t know.

I am taking it slow. The least panic inducing piece is the Courtney Love one and I have been diddling it off and on.

I’ve consulted some friends and this uh…what? Metaphorical and spiritual retiring to my fainting couch, is a sign I’m doing something right.

I want to believe that if I keep being gentle (I fucking hate that) that, the right thing will happen and I will get them done. I might even put together the chapbook I’d intended them to be.

Along the same lines, just lately I can’t seem to finish the few pieces about different painful aspects of Blackness.

Too much emotion.

Too many things that come out to translate roughtly as RAGE RAGE FUCK RAGE FUCK FUCK RAGE DIE.

So righty right.

The solution is (as the solution to all things author related) write like a mother fucker.

It hurts.

I bleed.

Keep writing.

It sucks.

I’m mad.

Keep writing.

Write it ugly, write it bloody and covered with snot and tears because that’s the only way I really know how to work.

Okay.

Go.

 

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