I Do Write.I write, certainly. The problem is that what I write disgusts me. Disgust is not a strong enough word, actually, more like I loathe the words on the page with every fiber of my being.
I look down at a poem I have written and there are a thousand tiny little voices telling me "this is wrong" "that sounds wrong" "fix this fix that" "No No No! What is wrong with you? This shouldn't even be here!" Often times I can't help but listen to them and in the end I am left with a butchered piece that I am extraordinarily unhappy with.
When I resist the urge to over-edit I am happy, for a moment, before looking at the poem again and holding back the burning bile rising in my throat.
I don't want to delete, that would be surrendering to that swirling vacuous vortex that is my self confidence. I want to be confident in my writing but I have no confidence in it.
I strive to achieve, to improve, to perfect what I do but I can't write when I want to. An idea is like a crazed hobo on a motor scooter suddenly zooming by and slapping me in the face as he passes. I have to write it down before the shock and the stinging sensation dissipate.
A famous poet once said that he discards any ideas that don't stay with him, but the ideas that stay with me seem like nothing but haze that slips through my fingers. Whereas, the ones I write down I can elaborate on that instant, but I rarely finish them because I hit a wall.
What I do finish, I despise.
Here's to being a writer, I suppose.