So I'm feeling inspired. I've been reading some great books on writing, plus I'm feeling good about simply being prolific. Prolific is THE WORD. Because prolific is what it's all about.
As long as I can remember to simply be prolific with whatever I do, and to write and act and paint and cook and do stuff, and keep the chi moving, then I'll eventually have success. But I just have to keep on doing stuff. Doing is what makes us work. Doing is what makes the creativity appear. And loving what we do is what makes it all come on out.
I simply do. There is always something to do, whether it's read or write or paint or work on some new project. Make shit happen, sell shit, paint shit, draw shit, learn shit. Sing, paint, act, write, do theatre, do films, come up with ideas. Write essays, short stories, articles, whatever. But keep that stuff coming, and make it keep coming.
And remember that when it's not coming, just make it come by writing ANY. OLD.SHIT.
And that really is the key. Write anything that breaks the writers or artist's block. Any old shit. Get it written or drawn or whatever, but make it come.
And don't worry about the quality, because if I take care of the quantity, God will take care of the quality. Because quality WILL pop out every now and then.
So as long as I write articles and short stories, and write them about stuff I know, i.e. ME, then I'll be fine. Write about my own experiences, about me, about my life, about what I go through.
..........................
I'm still so saddened that my ex doesn't understand me. But she never did, that's the thing. All the while we were together I was holding back a part of myself because I just didn't know what had happened. I couldn't process how I felt about her, because I simply wasn't ready. And it's only recently that I've had some real insights into what happened, and where I was at the time.
But now it would appear that her dear, insecure husband can't handle that I exist, let alone that I have my own feelings and processes around what happened that day in June 1986. It was so fundamental to me, this is the thing, because I never had anyone close before then. I'd never witnessed anyone that deeply, profoundly hurt before, and it was my opportunity to get close to someone. It was my opportunity to get close to her.
But the thing was, I didn't know what was going on at the time. I had no way of understanding what was happening to me, where I was going, what my feelings were, what it all meant. I didn't even know I was overwhelmed.
And I just then thought about the absurdity of the #metoo movement, and how most people simply don't understand men, and don't understand compassion. Women nowadays are so angry, it's terribly unattractive. Women in the 1940s understood men, and so there was a much better sexual thing, because people - men and women - were clear about their roles.
But roles changed. Men changed, not because they actually changed, but the politics of reality changed.
And now it's time to finish the fish soup.
As long as I can remember to simply be prolific with whatever I do, and to write and act and paint and cook and do stuff, and keep the chi moving, then I'll eventually have success. But I just have to keep on doing stuff. Doing is what makes us work. Doing is what makes the creativity appear. And loving what we do is what makes it all come on out.
I simply do. There is always something to do, whether it's read or write or paint or work on some new project. Make shit happen, sell shit, paint shit, draw shit, learn shit. Sing, paint, act, write, do theatre, do films, come up with ideas. Write essays, short stories, articles, whatever. But keep that stuff coming, and make it keep coming.
And remember that when it's not coming, just make it come by writing ANY. OLD.SHIT.
And that really is the key. Write anything that breaks the writers or artist's block. Any old shit. Get it written or drawn or whatever, but make it come.
And don't worry about the quality, because if I take care of the quantity, God will take care of the quality. Because quality WILL pop out every now and then.
So as long as I write articles and short stories, and write them about stuff I know, i.e. ME, then I'll be fine. Write about my own experiences, about me, about my life, about what I go through.
..........................
I'm still so saddened that my ex doesn't understand me. But she never did, that's the thing. All the while we were together I was holding back a part of myself because I just didn't know what had happened. I couldn't process how I felt about her, because I simply wasn't ready. And it's only recently that I've had some real insights into what happened, and where I was at the time.
But now it would appear that her dear, insecure husband can't handle that I exist, let alone that I have my own feelings and processes around what happened that day in June 1986. It was so fundamental to me, this is the thing, because I never had anyone close before then. I'd never witnessed anyone that deeply, profoundly hurt before, and it was my opportunity to get close to someone. It was my opportunity to get close to her.
But the thing was, I didn't know what was going on at the time. I had no way of understanding what was happening to me, where I was going, what my feelings were, what it all meant. I didn't even know I was overwhelmed.
And I just then thought about the absurdity of the #metoo movement, and how most people simply don't understand men, and don't understand compassion. Women nowadays are so angry, it's terribly unattractive. Women in the 1940s understood men, and so there was a much better sexual thing, because people - men and women - were clear about their roles.
But roles changed. Men changed, not because they actually changed, but the politics of reality changed.
And now it's time to finish the fish soup.
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