Tag Archives: writing

Creative Death.

Now here’s the part where I admit I have a crippling fear of coming off as “trying too hard.”

I love to write, but God forbid I write something that looks like I put any real effort into it. Hence the favor for stream of consiousness or spur of the moment revelations. Unless, of course, it’s an academic writing. But that’s a whole different story.

I love photography, but God forbid I shoot something purposeful. Hence the “photoadventures” where I drive or walk somewhere and just shoot whatever I come across. God forbid I do extensive editing/altering after-camera, so the vast majority (like 99%) of my work I share comes straight from the camera. (Or maybe I’m just a purist?)

I love drawing, but God forbid I spend time getting something just right. Hence the scribbles.

Once more I am probably repeating a message I have already shared on this blog, but who cares. This is what I am feeling–thinking–right NOW so this is what gets put down on “paper.”

Creative types: Any help to this problem? Is it so bad to take yourself seriously? Is it so bad to try or put effort in something? What can I do to stop editing myself from even trying? I’ve had some ideas lately but this fear of coming off as “trying too hard” stops me from action. This cannot continue.

Maybe it’s a confidence issue, or maybe it’s a laziness issue. I’d promise to be better, but wouldn’t that be trying too hard?

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I edit myself far too much lately.  Not out of fear of hurting someone’s feelings or for letting too much out in the open, but for fear of not presenting the best possible version of something.  And then I’ll just let go of the thought of editing–throw out everything I’ve produced into the open.  That way, I think to myself, I can’t be judged too harshly as I don’t think it’s the best myself.

How do I end this?  How do I start creating quality without editing it to death, or not editing enough? Where is the happy medium?

And what form do I want to put my thoughts in? Writing? Drawing? Photography? Music?  I’ll go one direction and when I’m not 100% pleased right away, I switch to another–not necessarily quitting, but changing.

I need a goal, I need a purpose, I need a medium, I need a center.

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Flashback Friday

This week in the past . . . wow.  Survey done by my 18-year-old self that is painful to read (it took all my willpower not to elminate the super awful answers to some questions).  A lot of reflection that makes my insides hurt–seems to have been in a trend for this time of year.  A recap on a trip to Colorado.  More sad, emo shit.

But, sometimes we can gain the most sight from looking backwards.

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Flashback Friday

Featured in this week’s edition:  NEAR DEATH EXPERIENCE! Reflections on why I drink! Loss of a beloved family pet. Lame ass emo shit! SPRING BREAK!

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One day she woke up and realized she’d been running the same fantasy through her head for the past seven years: She finds herself in her hometown, horribly successful and intimidatingly beautiful, picking up groceries when she runs into him and he drops everything he has in his hands (he is that startled) and just stands there until she breaks the silence by saying hello. Small variations in the fantasy would occur after this; sometimes she would simply walk off and leave him there surrounded by fallen groceries, other times they would engage in witty banter which ultimately lead them outside to his car (or sometimes her car) where they would either have this amazing conversation or maybe he would take her back to his house or maybe they would just drive off to anyplace but there.

Seven years. Seven years of the same fantasy with slight alterations. Seven years of not seeking out something new, of not trying to move on or to remember him through any lens other than that golden, hazy lens applied to memories that are often sweeter than the reality.

It’s not to say she spent those seven years with no other lovers or without thinking of anyone else. But anytime she would close her eyes and think of something really great or meaningful or sensual, it would always be him. Even if she’d start thinking of someone else, eventually images of him would dominate. Without fail.

And then she woke up on that day with that realization and decided to put it to rest. It had been seven years, but she was going to end it for once and for all. She would find him, and either he would disappoint her or he would be everything she wanted him to be. Either way, he would no longer be a thing of fantasy (THE thing of fantasy), but a piece of her reality. It was time to stop dreaming and time to start living, even if that meant she would be hurt or let down or, even worse, find life to be better than her fantasies.