Writing 101, Day One: Let’s unlock the mind. Today, take twenty minutes to free write. And don’t think about what you’ll write. Just write.
For the life of me, I can’t even seem to conjure relatively interesting thoughts to actually pen down. So I’m just basically going to carry on typing whatever that comes to my mind, as I sit on my bed. It’s a big, nice and comfortable full-sized bed that is slightly too big for my room. Ironically, this alluring bed has had only one person sleeping on it for the past year or so. I should probably downsize to a reasonable sized bed to create more space within this four walls. But I won’t. Just let me be hopeful why don’t you? Allow me to cling onto the notion that I’m going to get laid any time now. I just laughed in my own head. “How the hell are you going to accomplish that by staying cooped up in your room all day?” I don’t have much of a social life. In fact, I’m just existing. Just like my dogs.
Speaking of my dogs, they’re right here with me. I’ve got the fat one napping by my bed; and the mentally-challenged one sleeping by the door. All they seem to do is sleep. And exist. The only time they show any semblance of excitement is when I bring them down for their business. Otherwise, they just mope around the house; occasionally licking themselves, but mostly just sleeping. Perhaps their lethargy has rubbed off on me. That’s all I have been feeling lately- fat and sluggish. “It’s not my fault”, I say. The doctor has yet to clear me for exercise. Prior to this incident I was an exercise junkie. Oh, the endorphins. Oh, the soreness. Now, I’m just bitter and depressed. I’ve got about a week to go before I can start light exercises such as walking. YAWN! This is really depressing me.
“You know what else is really depressing?” My overstocked bookshelves of books. I picked up an expensive habit of purchasing paperbacks as a teen. It’s been several years and I still have hundreds of hoarded books that I have not found the time to read. And now that I have, it’s depressing me as well. I tend to spend the whole day reading in bed, because I simply can’t will myself to put books down. So yeah, the inactivity is compounding my self-loathing. Also, I’d like to take the time to admonish my sixteen-year-old self for buying so many goddamn crime thrillers. The worst part is, I actually bought the whole series of several different authors. James Patterson’s Alex Cross. Patricia Cornwell’s Kay Scarpetta. Harlan Coben’s Myron Bolitar. Just to name a few. I’ve been drowning myself in these paperbacks. I’m so sick of crime fiction. Seriously, some times as I am reading, I wished I was actually the character that was shot dead. “Well, I shouldn’t be wasting my precious time on books that don’t cut it for me, you say?” Sorry, but you didn’t pay $20 for it, did you?