The dreaded wall. I see red lights everywhere. Even before my pen can touch the page I feel the anxiety building. Somewhere between the part of my brain that makes magic and the tip of my green pen, there’s a major roadblock.
I’m an animated character. Two words into what I’ve told myself over and over again will be literary gold and I’m already on my feet, pacing trenches through the floor as I look for something to smash my head against.
Finally the words start to form but they come out of my mouth rather than my hand. “What the actual fuck are you doing?” I scream out loud.
My dark side is restless it demands to be aknowledged. I’ve been trying to shut it out but I can’t deny this part of myself anymore. It’s time I gave my demons a voice.
“You can’t write that, you retard. What will people think? This is a public forum. And here you are putting down your innermost private thoughts for the world to see. Are you writing for a blog or a page in your diary?”
I talk to myself often but when the words bounce back at me off the walls, it feels like I’m hearing it from someone else; a small comfort.
“I still can’t believe that you’re trying to pass this off as fiction. This isn’t fiction. It’s a thinly veiled account of your life. And your life is dead boring. Nobody wants to read this shit. You call this art? That grimy stuff that’s been collecting on kitchen stove is more artsy than the garbage you’re putting down on these pages. A ‘writer’ you call yourself…..what a fucking joke. I’ve seen tweets with more depth than you. Leave the writing to people who actually know what they are doing.
“So what if you have a passion for books. So what if you wrote a few good pieces for English class. So what if a few of your ‘friends’ stroked your ego by telling you that they like your work. You know damn well that they only said that because they know….deep down they know that you’re a shite writer and you can’t handle the truth.
“Have you ever seen an actual book? Do you have any idea the kind of work that goes into making one of those? You’ll never be a published author. You don’t have what it takes.
“Do the right thing and put down that pen, you fucking poser. Go jump off a cliff while you’re at it. Hell, I bet the pink stain you’ll leave on the rocks down below will make for better art than you could ever hope to create otherwise. Stop acting the fool and go back to your piss-poor existence. You’re embarrassing yourself and everybody out there who has the misfortune of knowing you.”
‘I’ve got an Angel on my shoulder but a devil in my head’