Self-imposed writer’s block

23 Jul

I’m not usually a procrastinator, but there are a few things that I will put off as long as humanly possible, like putting away laundry, cleaning the bathroom, having an enema and writing my short story. I know, likening writing a short story to having an enema is really bad, especially if you profess to love writing (and I do). Here’s my problem: I’m fucking terrified. I mean, flat out, no excuses, full on terrified. It’s just a contest, and I know the chances of me winning are slim to none, but part of me wants it so bad I could scream. The winner gets their story published in the magazine and wins $3,000. The other part of me wants to curl up in a ball and rock back in forth until the deadline for submissions passes. What if they hate it? What if they said , this is the worst piece of garbage I’ve ever seen. What if I did win, and everyone said, Man, you really suck, I can’t believe they printed that shit. Even though I have a blog and I write on it all the time, I get ridiculously scared of writing actual stories and having people read them. Yeah, I can bitch about stuff and tell funny stories about my family, but to tell a real story is different. When I was in high school, there was this column in the local newspaper, the premise was a teenager from the Northern part of the state wrote their opinion on an issue, and a teenager from the Southern part of the state wrote their opinion about the same issue. I was asked to do it. I said no. The thought of someone reading my stuff was too overwhelming. Which is retarded because I was the editor of my school newspaper, and I wrote stuff all the time. I don’t know what the issue is/was, it’s like anytime I get close to being able to write for real, I freak out.

I “hired” Chris to be my “agent”, to get me motivated and keep on me so I actually write this story. I’ve fired him about a dozen times, he says I’m not allowed fire him. Something about a union contract or something.

I want to say to myself, oh you can do this! You’ll bang it right out. But I just don’t feel that way. I feel like puking. And I haven’t even started yet. I see that evil cursor blinking at me and it makes me want to cry. Whatever happens, win or not win, even if it turns out to be the biggest pile of shit on the planet, I feel like I have to do this. I’ve used every excuse there is: the kids need me (they’d rather watch tv than have me fuss over them), there’s housework to do (the kids have chores now, they even vacuumed this morning!), I don’t have a laptop and it’s too hard to write at the desktop (Chris bought me a laptop), I don’t know what to write about (I have intricate plot lines scribbled in notebooks all over my house), I’ve just run out of excuses. Anyway, today (with great trepidation) I’m starting my story.

P.S. If any of you say, aww, you can do it! I believe in you! In the comments, I’m totally kicking your ass.

P.P.S. However if you really want to gush about my awesomeness, who am I stand in your way?

P.P.P.S. Just kidding about that last part.

P.P.P.P.S. Ok, I’m not really kidding, you can gush.

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