ugh /əɡ/
exclamation (informal)
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.
Ugh.
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.
Ugh.
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.
©2019 what sandra thinks
what sandra thinks 
I have the same feeling. I live re-reading my blogs from 2015/2016 when I seemed yo be able to formulate my thoughts in a much clearer way. Even more heart-breaking to me is the realization that my thoughts were more interesting as well, not just the words I was using to express them. I decided to blame trump. He is the fog-bringer. He is the dumb downer. When he’s gone we will be geniuses again. 🙂
LikeLiked by 1 person
Maybe my thoughts were better then and that’s why my writing was better. I don’t know… but I’m with you on the blame. He has definitely changed my underlying mood.
LikeLike
I still say that muse, inspiration, whatever one would call it, is still in there. You are a good writer. I remember your poems and stories. You’ve got it in there still. Just have to re-tap that keg. 😊
LikeLiked by 1 person
I don’t think it’s in me. That’s the problem. I think it comes from someone else. Right now, I don’t have a person. I’m sure it *should* come from inside me… but it doesn’t. It’s just like my self-confidence and “happiness” and anything else positive — I get those things from others, I don’t have them inside me. That’s pretty much my whole problem in life. I don’t love myself. I, in fact, hate myself. I need to get the ‘good stuff’ externally which is not healthy… and I can’t find it anyway.
LikeLiked by 1 person
I don’t believe that. 🤨
LikeLiked by 1 person
You don’t believe what, exactly? Because I’m sure you believe that I don’t love myself. And you must believe that my only good feelings come from others, never from myself. You know me…
LikeLiked by 1 person
I don’t believe you don’t have the muse inside of you. Yes. I know you. 😏
LikeLiked by 1 person
It comes from outside of me. I know because my self-worth (any little bit I may have) exists in me only if others see worth in me. I get it from them. I don’t get anything from myself. I don’t see good in me unless someone else sees it and tells me they see it. Thus my need for constant reassurance and attention.
LikeLiked by 1 person
We try to help with that. 😕
LikeLiked by 1 person
I know. And I appreciate it and love you guys. But because I have nothing inside me, I can never get enough from the outside. I shouldn’t be relying on others to feel good, but unfortunately, that’s my situation…
LikeLiked by 1 person
You are wrong! You just wrote a good story, the story of ugh! It made sense. It was entertaining. It was cogent. For W why not publish a random page of words from your abtb journal? Title it WTF if needs be!
LikeLiked by 1 person
What is abtb? I must be missing something.
As far as my writing, I’m thinking a lot about my poetry. I used to sit down at my laptop and write what I thought was a brilliant poem in 5 minutes… maybe less. It just poured out of me. The fiction came quickly, too. I don’t have that anymore. Not even a little bit. Now I can sit at my laptop for hours, days, weeks and I can’t write any poetry or fiction.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Always by the bed (abtb)!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Oh. That makes sense. I was thinking “A book to be”… which I guess also works?
LikeLiked by 1 person
The two may well be one and the same!
LikeLiked by 1 person
I think the book one is pushing it…
LikeLiked by 1 person