Procastinating for Perfection

When I peaked at the date of my last post it was disappointing to realize I haven’t published anything in six months. What have I been doing with myself? I posted Our Most Precious Resource on July 7, 2016 an article, ironically, about the value of time and there’s scarce evidence I’ve even attempted writing a blog post since.

I’ve been writing. I’ve been writing things which I place in a box in the basement where I do most of my writing. I’ll  think of rhymes, I’ll start singing, jot it down, put it in the box. I write a journal entry which is at bare minimum three pages every morning, or afternoon, when I wake up and put it right in the box. I’ve filled several of those three subject notebooks you can buy at most convenience stores and in the box they go.

The box is my most dedicated audience and my best friend because it knows all my darkest secrets and hasn’t turned me in yet. The box is indifferent neither a critic or a loving fan, but it keeps my work pent up better than any of our maximum security prisons. Rather I’m writing this for you, or me, it will undoubtedly end up in the box if I’m not vigilant enough in defending its worth outside the box.

I am sitting here trying again and meeting the same fierce internal resistance and strong doubts that any material I can produce will be of interest to anyone else. I’ve tried affirmations-“My writing is great,” “you’re fantastic,” “you deserve a cheese pizza,” but the box says angry things and I can’t make it stop.

“Yes, but it’s just cardboard Shawn,” my friends and family try telling me.

“STOP IT! STOP YELLING AT ME.”

A few of my friends went so far as to recommend therapy so I’ve dealt with them. Sometimes, when I’m writing comedic jokes I wonder if there’s someone out there who’s taking me literally like I’m some sort of Gacy type character who dresses up like a clown and hides bodies in the floorboards. No, most of my skeletons are metaphorical, though there was that one time… last summer…

I’ve got this grandiose image of myself as a visionary and that just any day now I’m going to wake up and there it’ll be in my head, perfectly pressed and steamed, my masterpiece. Then I’ll sit down and write some God awful tripe that a random word generator could could accomplish it with the same panash, panesh? What the hell does that mean anyway? I never want anyone to see me when I can’t spell, when my belly’s hanging out, or I ain’t lookin purdy. There’s some people who are so good at things that it drives us mad, because we want that; We want someone to see that flash in us and be jealous and feel that same feeling we had when we saw that other person do that thing they did so amazingly well.

If I was a visionary you’d think  I’d have something I could hold up to the world, or even my parents, and say “look, lookie here, this is the earthly manifestation of that quality I’ve got in spades!” I’m gonna keep on trying anyhow-bad spelling, clumsy tongue, numb brain,  and sheet stains one in all until I can parade my fantasy freak-show uptown for all the snooty folks to see; but Lastly, and before I go, a little poem:

is tonight the night
I beat the box
and run it out of town?
but first just wait
and shake it there
to see what tumbles down.

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