Close the computer. I have nothing to say. I never have anything to say on these things. Where am I going with this? I can’t stand it anymore. I never knew how to stand it in the first place. I’m losing. I’m losing the battle. Where is my courage? Where is the something to say when I need to say it. OHMYGOD.

I have too much to say. That is my new problem. I have all these ideas, all of them I think brilliant. And when it comes time to say any of them, I freak out. Stop writing, and pretend to get on with my life.

Okay, I won’t do it now. I won’t freak out or stop what I plan to do. I will write.

...

Don’t do it! Don’t open the browser to waste more time. Concentrate on not wasting time. I wish I had something more. I wish I knew something more. Why don’t I do it? Why don’t I stop using words like “it” and “things” and “umm” and replace it with something meaningful? As if I could say anything meaningful.

I watched the Charlie Rose interview with DFW, my writer-ly hero. I realize: he’s a normal person, with normal problems, who writes. He’s smart, book smart, great memory, very articulate and an excellent logician, the type that falls back on first principles to arrive at meaningful conclusions. But he’s not that special. He grows and learns and becomes, like any other person. He’s lived and made mistakes: an addict, a nerdy partier; he broke down like a normal person and he spent the last ten years building him back up. He caught the golden ticket and realized that for all its shine, it didn’t amount to very much.

I can’t do what he does. I can only do what I do, in the same way as he does what he does. I need to spend the time, push the buttons, say what I want to say. I need to focus on myself. If original art is about expressing oneself as one really is instead of as others expect to see them, then it shouldn’t be so hard. What I write might not be good—as the unexpected is not always good—but it will be me, and if that’s the best I can deliver, it fulfills my promise to myself. That’s all I can ask for. I will tell stories, or tell something. Once again I’ll proclaim that I don’t give a shit what others think of it. It’s only painful if I don’t do it, if I fret and worry and wonder what if anything I will ever become.

I know these are short consternations. That’s not a surprise. I always start with consternations. I don’t always move off of them, but if I don’t start, then I have no chance of continuing. Did you notice the words? These are words. I can’t ask for more than words (you can, but, as I said, I’m not sure I care anymore what you’re asking).