because some days suck


There's nothing so contrary as being an artist.

I say 'artist', rather than 'writer' because I think it applies to all creatives.

And I say 'creatives' rather than 'creative people' because I happen to believe that all humans are inherently creative -- or, at least have the capacity for such -- but not all humans are creatives.

It never ceases to amaze me, my capacity for such audacious arrogance [I self-publish my writing] while at the same time, suffering from crippling self-doubt [I self-publish my writing].

How dare I....

How dare I not....



The Rainbow-Unicorn Brigade would have me seize my  Super Powers of Awesomeness and go boldly forth - which is good and helpful and gets my arse in the chair.

But, some days are shit.

Some days are decidedly not awesome.

Some days I wonder what ever possessed me to think I could write stories that people would consider reading.

I think it's good to acknowledge these days.

I think it's good to admit I wobble sometimes occasionally often.

Not because I fancy myself an Example of Overcoming The Wobbles -- but because I don't think it's fair to pretend that this is easy.

For instance, I don't think I can stomach one more Instagram view of 'creative life'.

Here's how things look from where I'm sitting:

My desk is covered with the detritus of a completed [in draft] novel -- this includes eleventy billion sticky notes [rendered un-sticky by cat hair], outdated school newsletters, a Crunchie wrapper, library check-out receipts, a stocking-stuffer list and a broken dresser drawer handle that star-boy thinks I'm going to fix.

It does not look like:  an artfully placed potted plant [white pot, probably a succulent of some kind], a hand-thrown mug of steaming, artisan, coffee, a pristine moleskine and accompanying pen, all attractively arranged on a walnut-stained wooden table, next to a shiny Macbook Air.

My bathrooms may soon be declared biohazards and I seriously doubt I'll ever get the kitchen floor clean again.  The dog is getting fat - mostly from eating the cat-litter crumbs from the floor - and so am I. [see aforementioned Crunchie wrapper].

I've been wearing the same clothes for over a week. I come home from work, shower and don my warmest and most comfortable clothing which [for the last week] includes thermal undergarments, sweatpants, my pajama top [why bother getting properly dressed, I'm not going anywhere] and a pilly, wool cardigan.

Oh yes, this is an Instagram-worthy aesthetic. :P

I suppose I could've snapped a pic of the giant bowl of greens I just ate for dinner [see aforementioned - I'm getting fat] but I was too busy shoveling in great gob-fulls of it.

I know, I know - I sound bitter and resentful and I've no right to dictate how other people curate their lives. Where's the compassion and universal acceptance? Why are you harshing my perfectly-staged mellow?

I have absolutely no right, I'm the first to admit that - go on with your bad selves, I say.

BUT -- I do have the right to object to the wanton spread of this idea of perpetual bliss and perfection.

Because if that's what you expect when you strike off on this [ultimately] most rewarding of paths -- you're in for a really big shock.

Really big.

Okay, done now.

I'm going to water my plants in case I need them later for a photo shoot.

~m. xo

This existential crisis brought to you by...

me, having shipped my manuscript to my lovely beta-readers, and collapsing in a state of extreme exhaustion.