It's raining out. The coffee didn't quite work but it was warm most of the time I was drinking it. There are words that I pounded out but I can't stop myself from rereading them as soon as they materialize on screen. These are the types of words that don't feel good when coming out, and they certainly feel worse when analyzed. But this is how it works. I am able to write much better about my difficulties writing then I am at writing the things I intended to. This perversion of productivity leads me to thoughts of a pivot; maybe I should give up narrative screenwriting altogether and embrace this more narcissistic, gonzo-whining style of things. It could lead me to sell paperback novels, the pages of which would be filled with the sort of irreverent, self-effacing dribble that comes to me so naturally. This success could carry on and I could feel a sense of pride and accomplishment from the recognition I receive. This recognition would almost certainly come packaged in requests to seek help, or reminders of people's availability to "talk". And because the source of this type of work is a leak in my troubled psyche, any praise or affirmation of any kind would surely lead to the cataclysmic, ego-driven cannibalism of said source. Loneliness and depression create the work. So when more work is called for by popular demand, I must take a head-first dive into my deep vat of neuroses. A cycle would be created. Or maybe it already has been. Perhaps I am in it now. This does feel like the throes of an abject, Sisyphean hike of self-deprecating masturbation...
Look I'm already bored about writing about this imaginary career in which I write about writing until there is enough sadness in enough words that people mistake it for genius. I'm bored because it is empty, useless even. I was writing like the type of person that was going to pat me on the back in the hypothetical. In all reality, I don't have a deep enough well of shitty feelings to really go down the aforementioned path.
There was a moment there, when words were happening, that I felt good about this grouping of spasms. At one point it was going to be an almost coherent collection of thoughts. But that ship has sailed because the early bird gets the worm and you can't count your eggs before they hatch. Put that in your pipe and smoke it.