Three pages after I wake Sun-Dec-20 (2)

Even though I have not just woken and have been up for several hours now, I cant stop thinking. So, I decided to write for another three pages. As long as I am sitting here on the clock getting paid I might as well write. If I can do that on their time I can do it on mind. Otherwise it just goes to show, I really won’t make sacrifices for writing. As if I cant spare any of the twenty hours I spend sleeping. I over exaggerate. I don’t sleep nearly that long. I actually don’t sleep enough, but I will choose to sleep over most anything including getting up for work and writing.

I realized something, I am forgetting stories. Well actually I don’t know if they are forgotten as much as they are just not thought about. When I look over my notes all my mental notes on the idea come flooding back. One thing that frustrates me and when I fix this problem it will go a long way to allowing me to take myself seriously is that I have mounds of unfinished work. It is not rare for me to get bored halfway through a project or move on to something else. It has been suggested that I have ADD. Then I consider the source of that suggestion and I consider it a misdiagnosis. Then again people have labeled me all sorts of things in my young life. Doesn’t mean I believe all of it. One label I have resisted my whole life thus far is that of ‘bright’ Usually teachers use this term and it is followed by the words “But he doesn’t apply himself.” I tend to think that ‘bright’ is a term they use for most their students, more than ever I see it as a burden of high expectations. I already see where this line of thinking will take me.

Why is it I would rather believe I am dull and incompetent than bright. Is it easier to give up or to try? I have heard both, that I am worthless and genius. Its easier to believe the latter but honestly I know better. You can only fool yourself for so long. I look at what I have now, scattered ideas and scattered incomplete notes. How is this anything more than a hobby? As my father put it “This is a huge scam.” That’s how I feel most times when people heap compliments on me. The usual bright remarks make me cringe and I feel like I have tricked them into believing something that is not true. I feel no great reward or accomplishment, I feel guilty that this person believes me to be better than I really am.

A fraud. I suppose if I sat down and wrote more like this I would learn a lot more, if nothing else I would get better in the craft I am trying to dedicate my life to. Maybe if I got all this filthy junk out my head I could concentrate more on the projects in front of me. I only get out of my mind what I put into it. The midnight sub conscious ramblings of my mind is merely a byproduct of all the information I store in it during the day light hours.

As much comfort as it gives me to downplay myself I do realize that I am burning an enormous amount of potential. I remember as a youth reading the encyclopedia for fun. I was always alone as a youth, my poor school grades kept me locked away in my room during the school months so what better way for a future hermit to spend his time than to read books all day. Sometimes I wonder had I not have grown up the way I did, would I still be a writer. Am I a writer because of how I grew up or despite how I grew up?

I admit always being creative but again Is this because I was locked away in my room with only myself to talk to? I don’t recall an imaginary friend I recall talking to myself knowing full well I was the only one who would answer. Even now talking aloud to myself gives me comfort in stressful situations.

I have only a few minutes left before the end of my shift. I admit I suck ever dollar out this company. Used them as much as they used me. I have about half a page left on the third and last page. Just as well I’m tired of writing, I want to think now. Thinking leads me to writing.