I don’t know why I missed my Monday deadline this week, ok I do, it’s because I have zero discipline as a writer, barely any as a songwriter and just enough to remember that in order to stay alive I need to breathe.
I’ve also had the latest version of covid which fogs my stupid brain and turns my nose into a tap (That’s right kids, don’t sniff coke for years, save your nostrils and inject it.)
I’m also still reeling emotionally from the loss of my mum, the family upheaval that brought with it, and some serious problems elsewhere in the handful of humans that constitute my clan.
So yeah, the past few weeks have been difficult, to say the least but I’ll survive, it’s what I know how to do best it would seem. Survival and procrastination, my two super-powers, the ability to do the first allowing the opportunity to do the other, how’s that for a symbiotic relationship with yourself?
In order to try and change the levels of “Hey those curtains need cleaning, the writing can wait-ness” that I am again afflicted with, I’ve joined a group. Not a pop group, I already have one of those, nor is it a self-help group, I’ve been a member of that tribe for ages. I have decided to try and ‘do’ The Artists Way.
For the ‘non-cognissi’ amongst you (I’m speaking Italian) back in 199-something, a lady called Julia Cameron wrote a book about using spiritual enlightenment as a tool to access and nurture the ‘artist’ that apparently lies within us all. Apparently ‘we’ are all our own worst enemy when it comes to doing things that are creatively beneficial to us.
Well fuck me who knew.
I’d sooner set my pubes on fire that actually do something that is good for me such is the level of inner-critic and “I’m not worthy-ness” that afflicts me on a daily basis. It’s very much hard-wired into addict DNA and also a seemingly constituent part of being any kind of musician/creative. Throw in a *incoming understatement alert* ‘difficult’ childhood and shocking response to that trauma..well, you get the picture yeah?
So, in order to unblock the bottomless pit of creative love-juice I am apparently denying myself by being a curtain-washer extraordinaire, what I ACTUALLY need to do is sit down every morning and write what is known as The Morning Papers.
Three, stream-of-consciousness, handwritten pages every bloody morning before I do anything else. Ok, so fuck that, I don’t do anything without coffee and getting those crumpled curtains washed and ironed. Also the car probably needs cleaning, the dog needs walking, the neighbours need checking-in on, that latest album I’ve just paid and exorbitant amount of money (that I don’t have) for, needs listening to as loud as possible, the laundry needs to get done, social-media needs doom-scrolling through, oh yeah maybe I should eat something and….yeah that’s the fucking problem isn’t it?
Artists way my arse.
If I had the discipline to write three pages of waffle every morning I wouldn’t have brought the fucking book, would I?
No.
I wouldn’t.
This latest rant/avoidance has been brought to you my Nespresso Coffee x2 and Doolittle (nice pun, see what I did there) by The Pixies. (very loud)
I’ve managed two days of The Morning Papers by the way, this post ain’t part of it.
This Monkeys gone to Heaven..
Lets try again tomorrow.
Laid up withe herniated discs ,that will teach me for being a hard worker all my life !
Ths cheered me up no end , lifes hard and then you die , good if you can have abit of a laugh between start and finish x