I have collected more than a baker’s dozen of writing prompts through the years. They have been collected on the hope that they would help a story develop, or contribute to characters’ depth, and three dimensional build-up.
Yet for the most part they have languished in files, folders, binders, and notebooks. They have collected dust, and tears. They have served as a reminder that I have put off today what I should have done.
Plans have been made, regarding these collected prompts. Great plans. The best plans. I have taken them to coffee shops, and workshops, and libraries. When it comes time to put to use, I find some other activity to engage in, usually sexting, or reading blogs. This in turn leads to frustration, and depression and anger. But I fail to scold myself for not following through.
This particular plan of using the prompts as blog posts has been a dream in waiting for at least 3 years. Why wait so long? There is no one answer. Most I am ashamed to admit to, i.e. depression, work, the ease and comfort of the chair which is planted in front of the T.V. Obsessive compulsion to watch said T.V. Various bad habits I have fallen into-sexting, porn, nervous eating, anxiousness when it comes to writing. I get up, walk into the kitchen, open the refrigerator, mindlessly root around for something that is tasty. That something is usually unhealthy. So, I debate myself on consuming it now, or when I return in 20 minutes. Or debate whether to eat half, or to eat the unhealthy option now and only eat healthy options the rest of the day. Sometimes, I can shut the fridge before I grab any food. But more often than not the battle is lost. There is no real hunger. It is anxious hunger. My mind is worried about all the terrible things the wider world will surely say about what I write. What I will write. What I have written. Therefore whatever foolishness I have planned to write using these collected prompts will surely cause me pain.
But what if the pain of not doing it, becomes greater than the pain of avoidance?
I feel that is where I am. This place, where the pain of not following through on this plan is greater than the pain of skipping it, sucks. I can’t stand it. I hate rolling in a blanket of depression on the bed. I hate not being able to propel myself out of this blanket. I hate being able to get up and go to work for someone else, but can’t gather the strength to work for myself.
Oh the frustration.
I am attempting to say enough. I don’t know how long my strength will last in this endeavor. Nor if I have the strength to break this cycle, to shred the blanket of depression.
All I know is that today the pain of not trying is greater than the pain of avoidance.
And so I begin. Ever so slowly, I begin.