I'm not sure if I could ever accurately describe the feeling of having a million stories that you KNOW are original and entertaining but for some reason, some fucking reason....you just can't seem to write them down.
As I peruse over the countless unfinished screenplays, novels, and short stories (I haven't even finished a frickin' short story), I get so frustrated that I wish someone would just stab me in the ass with a rusty shovel. Make me do it! Why won't you make me!!!???
Anywho, I recently began taking an adult education class called "The Art of Book Writing" in hopes that maybe if I had to adhere to some sort of a schedule and participate with others that I may possibly be motivated enough to go the distance. But alas, I am merely two weeks from it's completion and have completely lost my zest for it.
I started out (as I always do) full of grand expectations. Sunbeams were practically shooting out of my crotch because I was just so freakin' excited. When we were asked to complete a timeline of happenings in our life that inspired us to want to write, I turned in eight pages and the instructor bawled her eyes out. She begged me to discard the notion of turning in a completed 50 page book by the end of the semester and instead stick with her through the next couple of semesters and write a biopic novel.
I shat my pants full of gummi bears at the thought of an actual published writer being so jazzed about my work and I didn't know what to say so I just said "o.k." She told me that it would be tough,( I've had an "interesting" life) but I was completely dismissive of her warning. "No issues" I said. "This is what I've always wanted to do."
By the time I made it through chapter One I was ready for a 5th of Whiskey and a bottle of Ambien. I had no idea how stirring up all that buried crap would really affect me and wow did it ever in a horrible way. I got great feedback from the class but when I looked at what I wrote I don't see it. My gut reaction is that the content is interesting but the writing is not. It's cliche' and dry. No rhythm at all. Puke.
So last night in my funk of not wanting to write about this shit anymore and also not knowing if I should anyways, I purposely watched "Buy The Ticket, Take the Ride". It's a documentary about the life and times of the illustrious author Hunter S. Thompson and my God, fate does come when you call it.
That's what I want! I want to bleed it out like he did with every movement and thought. To become a master of puppeting the English language and forcing my will into people's brains.
He typed Earnest Hemingway novels over and over just so he could see what it felt like to write that well. I'm wondering if I did the same with Thompson's work if I could somehow channel his "Gonzo" spirit and break away from cliche' and kick the balls off of orginality?