Words of warning and welcome:

This is very much my blog, so don't be surprised if this doesn't follow accepted patterns and norms. Obviously it started out as a blog about my cross-dressing but it has developed a great deal since then. It is a place where I can be anonymous and honest, and I appreciate that.

It will deal with many things and new readers would do well to check out the New Readers' Page above this and the tag down there on the right. Although there's nothing too bad in here there will be adult language, so be careful. If you think this needs a greater control, please let me know. Thank you!

Friday, 28 March 2014

Randomisation

Be warned, I have been writing on my other blog. I have been attempting to rewrite a shit novel. I think I mentioned that.


I have also been skipping meals and watching my step. But all I do is watch myself miss my footing. Don't read on if you aren't interested. Hell, don't read on if you are. It's my oddness to have to write shit to cope, not yours to read it.





Sometimes I feel that I am slipping away. There are flashes, sustained in places, where I feel at home, where I feel that I know myself and am happy with who I am. Then, other times, I feel my balance going and it's like the world is moving. Then it's not the world that is moving and wobbling and being strange, it's me. It's my own crevasse that I have fallen into.

Football, a foul, a stupid mistake, but one that I made knowingly. And, straight away, I'm back where I started. This has been building for a while, it's been threatening to come through for a long time and now, now it's coming through. Small starts: a missed mark or two, a homework that hasn't been checked. This then moves through Tilly feeling hacked off for some reason, compounded by a falling out with the children and then purified through the time of the month or else through hormones generally. Add in huge amounts of illness - usually augmented by an increased surge of hypochondria - and so I feel bad even more. Combined with the already low feeling that I cart around this is usually enough to knock me off balance. And so it has proved again.

We end up watching shit on the TV. Shit that Tilly likes rather than stuff we both watch. She ends up writing more, I end up taking solace in games late into the night. Then it starts. I'll seek out some porn on the internet and I shall look for a new thrill, the next thrill. The last time, the last time isn't enough in this mood and the further I plumb the better I feel because the further I plumb the more the guilt I feel matches the actions that I take. At this point a further push is required. Off-hand insults at work, maybe a thoughtless comment from a student, something that I perceive could have been done better or not done for one reason or another. And then I'm on to not getting up in a morning. I'll skip breakfast, I'll skip lunches or eat sparingly, and this will leave me weaker once again. And that's how it's been going, of course it has.

Thus, frustrated and generally feeling downj it won't take much to push me into a full depression. The foul at football was enough, of course it was enough, how could it have bee anything else? A comment on my writing online from someone who did not enjoy it, reasonably pointing out that my writing is more of the same and that it has passed tolerance for them. I can see why, my creative sparks are easily extinguished and easily dampened down from sparks to ash. It's how I roll. Let's be brutally honest, I have never actually completed a story since I started writing. I have written little snippets, vignettes, all my life but I have never worked at them or taken them to their conclusions. I have never managed to work on something more than once, everything I have ever written has been written as a first draft. First drafts that are plugged onto the page until I lose interest or the next shiny thing distracts me.

My lack of consistency in my writing is bad enough but at least there is something at the end of each project, some hope of improvement. But this, too, is a chimera. I cannot improve from what I am doing because I can't stand to read the sort of shit that I end up writing. Case in point is the blogging that I do and the rewrites that I plan and then never carry through to completion. My wordcounts lower little by little. The time spent staring at empty white space lengthens and so I feel worse and worse about my writing. You could say it was a crisis of confidence but it is overblown to do so. Mainly what is happening is the fact that I am not really a writer. I am a charlatan.

What does that mean for me? It means that I write in rhetorical questions and spew forth diatribe on sections of writing that don't really go anywhere. Blogging and reposting and watching pornography on the internet. And no one reads all of what I write anyway, no one reads the things that I write publicly and, if they do, they say something nice and throw-away without really understanding the problem. The problem? My problem. My inability to actually write. I do not write any more than Catholics have a capacity to be guiltless. I go to church now and again but I haven't had a proper conversation with God in a long time. I know that He knows what is going on and I know that He knows me. I know that, as I have been created by Him, He loves me. But, at the same time, I have no idea what that actually means.

Oh, woe is me, there I go again. It is simply a statement of fact, I don't know love at all. Take my relationship with Tilly as a good example. I thought that a goodly portion of marriage was physical, in hugs and kisses and sex, and that I as being different and clever when I said that I would not need to have sex all the time. The innocence of not knowing. But after being denied sex for so long and having been introduced to the frankly bizarre concept that my wife does not wish for more than a single orgasm in sex, that she has no requirement for anything other than missionary position and no desire to try anything else... She views my expectations of physicality as being a hold-over of teenage fumbling. Maybe it is for her. But... I never had that. It's jealousy I guess. Or something. Longing. Sadness. Ruefulness.

Pointless.

4 comments:

  1. Believe it or not, that is thought provoking. I deleted most of my driveling response because it added nothing to your post. I won't promise to come back with a better response later. Although I have the best of intentions to do so, I'm pretty certain I won't. Although I still lurk about in the shadows, I'm currently on a jail-break from the gurly obsessions, but of course the gurl's always somewhere inside the guy, and the two need to come to terms with one another and little bits always help.

    Chin up. Now go bang the wife!

    JL

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    1. Thank you.

      For future reference, drivel as a comment is well received! Good luck on the jail-break! Who knows, you may make it far enough to stay out a good long while!

      And *if only* I could "go bang the wife" - she's not really up for that.

      Joanna

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  2. Joanna,

    Your post here touches on many different subjects (Randomization as a title was a good choice), but one thing that stood out to me is your feelings toward your writing. I get the feeling that we have similar thoughts toward our own particular creative endeavors…. your writing and my photography.

    For the longest time after school (the first round of college), I wanted to create ‘something’. A great, classic, thought provoking, soul moving photograph. I had all the skills needed in my mind to do such a thing, and had most of the equipment to do so. I just didn’t do it. Sure, I’d pick up the camera often enough and go scouting… I’d find something interesting and take photographs of it, but knew that it was only minimally good. I’d think and imagine of ways to make the photograph work on a higher level, and sometimes even write down notes on how to change the ‘snapshot’ I took into a real photograph. But I just didn’t do it.

    For a long while the lack of any real results bothered me. I felt that all the actions I took were akin to me spinning my wheels. A lot of action, but no results. After a long LONG while though, I found a way to enjoy the process over the result. It was so blindingly simple that at first I didn’t even try… and it did take effort to realize this change. I stopped caring about the end result.

    I stopped caring about creating a great, wonderful, amazing photograph. Instead I focused on the enjoyment I got out of trying to create said photograph. I focused on taking my camera out on walks or drives and looking for something interesting. I focused on finding interesting things and bringing them back to my camera to be photographed. I focused on mentally going through the process of properly lighting (or figuring out what time of day and weather scenarios would be needed for light) the photograph. And when the urge to finish the photograph left me, I’d just let it leave. I wouldn’t worry about the time spent on creating something without anything at the end of the process. I wouldn’t worry about not having a great photograph. I’d just look back at the memory of having fun and wait for the urge to strike again.

    That all happened years ago, but I still do it to this day. I recently went on a trip to Chicago and didn’t bring any photography equipment. But I still got the urge and using my camera phone went through the motions. Now if I was after that ‘great’ photograph, I wouldn’t even bother. The camera phone just doesn’t have the controls nor the quality to really make a beautiful photograph. But taking snapshots of cityscapes and pieces of art was still very satisfying.

    To turn this back to you, maybe all you need to do to get more enjoyment out of writing is to change your goal. You don’t need to write a novel, novella, or short story to get enjoyment out of writing. Instead focus on the enjoyment you get out of writing those vignettes and scenes, and when the urge leaves you it won’t leave you with a half-finished piece of work… it will leave you with an enjoyable experience and prepare you for the next enjoyable writing experience.

    I hope that helps a bit!

    C

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    1. *nods sagely*

      Oh absolutely. I do... most of the time. But I am also aware that to be a writer one must actually write and that to make my writing something that will be read means a little more than pootling.

      Put another way, my aim with writing has always been to have it read. And, in order to have people read it, it has to be a little more than a hobby. Most of what I write is hobby-standard and sometimes that's all I need. But I've been doing that for so long now... I guess I thought I could do something with it beyond scribble it down.

      And no, the end result is neither here nor there, but I do want people to read whatever I write. And, another aim, I want to finish something. It doesn't even have to be good, just finished.

      Thank you though, for sharing your journey!

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All comments are welcome, I have a thicker skin virtually than I do in real life!