1. used to express disgust or horror.
That’s about right.
Maybe I should wait for W to write about writing, but I’m not waiting. This really isn’t about writing anyway. It’s about frustration… and, of course, as the title indicates, disgust and horror.
I went through a period of great writing. That’s not meant to sound conceited. I just happen to think it’s true.
If you go back to my blog posts from late 2016/early 2017, you’ll find a lot of poetry. [There’s a menu option for ‘poetry’ on my blog… go there, if desired.] Maybe my poetry sucks to a ‘real‘ poet, but I love the poems I wrote during that time. Without going back and reading my entire blog, I can’t pinpoint when I crashed and burned. But there came a time when I couldn’t find the words anymore. I couldn’t write a poem to save my life. Well, if a shitty poem would save my life, then I withdraw my previous statement.
I love my fiction, too. All of it. [There’s a menu option for ‘fiction’ on my blog, too… go there, if desired.] Is it great, publish-worthy writing? I doubt it. But I love it. Again, not to sound conceited, but I do go back and read my fiction often. In fact, I read and edit all the time (yes, I edit for fun with no real purpose other than my own enjoyment). I have all of my fiction on rotation. Right now, I’m obsessed with my secret book. But soon enough, I will go back to Roses Are Blue or Secret Admirer or any of the others. I’ll get lost inside, and I’ll never want to come out.
I got off topic a little bit there. My point was, originally, before I veered off somewhere… I haven’t been able to write any new fiction for over a year. A year and a half, I think it is now. And my poetry hasn’t been good for at least that long, probably longer. I’ve tried. I’ve made some notes and transcribed some dreams… but that’s it.
What happened to me? I’m frustrated with myself. Even disgusted with myself. And totally horrified.
I guess I lost my muse. But I’m not sure I believe that because back then, I didn’t realize I had one. But thinking back now, maybe I did. Fuck, I don’t know. What I do know is that I miss being proud of my writing.
Disgust and horror, indeed.
p.s.— I woke up a few days ago with a story in my head. I grabbed my always-by-the-bed journal and wrote everything I could remember as quickly as I possible. Whether or not I can turn it into a story remains to be seen… but don’t hold your breath.
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