A Writer's Diary - Part 6: The Text About Getting Stuck

A fine day, but her mind had gone a little foul. She mumbled in her thoughts. Mumblegrumble.

Come to me, oh Inspiration.

Foul and foul alike. Another thought went past, but she couldn’t get a hold of it. Anger rose in her; black-and-red clouds of pyroclast, reeking of sulfur and death.

Yet again, she banged her head on the desk. Little drops of lukewarm coffee speckled debris papers, and she roared. Banged her head. Banged her fist. Banged both fists.

Her skin ruptured and now she bled.

Maybe it was all too much. Maybe she was in over her head.

Nope! She refused to let it go. Yes, her day had gone wrong since yesterday. And yes, her body was totally against her; but how in the three deep hells would she ever get anything done in this life if she were to wait for the good days.

Good days were a precious few; an exotic currency in which nothing could be traded. And if she had five in a year, that was a lot.


Suck it up, princess.

Her brain groaned with sleep deprivation. Her stomach cackled evilly.

Shut the fuck up.

She picked up the coffee and swallowed it all. For about four seconds, her brain went weeeeeee!, and then fell silent again.

Fucking zombie mode.

Get over it get over it get over it!

Then she laughed. It was not a nice laugh.

Piss off and let me do my work already!


A sigh like a soggy floor mat. Hands covering her face.

She pulled her glasses off.

They were blue, her glasses. She liked that color. That particular blue. It was a cold, sharp, yet smooth blue; comforting a riling at the same time. She envied it. To be so at one with itself, and so wholesome in the world. 


And now she was wasting time. She knew it. She could feel the words underneath the surface. She just couldn’t reach them. They slid off her synapses like bland little jellyfish. She grabbed and grabbed for them, but they just laughed like the little menaces they were, and slurped right out of her grip. 


«Meeeeeeeeeeeh!» she groaned.

Maybe call her friend?

It was tempting. But she knew all she would achieve was a headache, unnecessary complaining, and time waste for both of them. Probably.

Maybe not.

The phone stayed on the table.

Her eyes travelled out the window.

Kommentarer

Legg inn en kommentar

Populære innlegg fra denne bloggen

Nyheter i fleng, pluss en tekst

Bilde
©️S.C. Nilsen Som vanlig, long time no see, men det har vært hardt vær her på nordsida av landet, og da mener jeg livsmessig: Som noen av dere veit har jeg endelig fått ADHD-diagnosen, og er medisinert as we speak. Jeg har snakka lenge om ADHD og de tingene jeg har lært rundt det (mest på Insta), og det fine er, at utrolig mange folk - både kjente og ukjente - har tatt kontakt for å snakke om sine egne tanker og opplevelser rundt saken. I den anledning bestemte jeg meg for å opprette en egen blogg om ADHD/mental helse, livsreisa og endringene jeg er inne i nå (og såklart må jeg snike inn litt som skriving, hallo) her:  Sylvilel På Villspor Which brings us to the next news: Skriving går ufattelig  bra for tida; jeg jobber med to egne romanprosjekter (det ene går mer framover enn det andre...), samt fungerer som hjelperedaktør på antologien som mitt kjære Vesterålen Litteraturlag skal gi ut til jul. I tillegg har jeg fått forespørsel om å være (betalt) manuskonsulent for en venn uvisst n
Les mer

Conversations With My Inner Critic #1

- You’re never gonna do it. - Never gonna do what? - Write that book you want to. - Oh. Why not? - You’re not good enough. - Why am I not good enough? - You don’t write everyday. - I don’t write everyday? - No. You just sit there, thinking it all up inside your head, but you never get it down on paper. - I see. And that means I won't be good enough to write a book? - No. Yes. Yes, it means that no, you won’t be good enough. - Okay. So what do you propose I do, then? - Write something else? - Something else? - Yes. Something better. - But how can it be better if I don’t write at all? - You just gotta change. - Change? - Yes. - Change how? - Change into a better person. - Someone else than I already am? - Yes. - But I can’t do that. - But you have to. - But that’s impossible. I am me. I will never be anything else. - But you could try. - You know, I did. Remember? - I suppose. - Remember how that went? - You got depressed and ended up hating yourself, and thinking everyone else hate
Les mer

"Hva skjer'a?"

Bilde
©️S.C. Nilsen  Jeg sitter her og filosoferer litt sånn: "Hva skjer her nå egentlig?" I mange år har jeg stappa ønskene og drømmene mine ned i lufttette sekker, stappa etter med polstring og snørt igjen så hardt jeg kan. Nå leser jeg om Johanne Refseths lignende opplevelser, og det røsker i noen ganske mørke, fastgrodde røtter i meg: Jeg veit jo at jeg har vært redd; hele tida visste jeg dét. Jeg visste også at jeg stappa følelser i sekker, slo av funksjonen og måtte øve  meg på å føle igjen. Jeg føler igjen nå. Men fortsatt er det skurringer på kanalen: Drømmer er til for de modige. Jeg  er modig. Men jeg tør ikke likevel. Kontekst? Skal vi se: År med udiagnostisert ADHD (diagnose still pending, men utredninga er i det minste i gang), følgesymptomer som angstproblematikk, depresjon, en gang hadde jeg til og med selvmordstanker (ikke planer, bare tanker), mye ensomhet som følge av vanskeligheter med relasjoner og tillit, litt PTSD her og der, dårlig følelsesregulering - så, ja
Les mer