February 17th, 2010 / 8:15 pm
Random
Matthew Simmons
Random
Ever freak out about your writing?
httpv://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ch6Jtk6oJRo
Sometimes writing can knock a whole lot of angry into you. Ever really, really freak out? What happened?
(The scene comes from The Lonely Lady starring Pia Zadora.)
Tags: freaking out, writing
I had a meltdown right before I turned in the final version of my collection, over trying to re-write a particular story. Lots of crying, frantic pacing, and a few days w/out sleep. At the time, I was living in a cabin in the woods and started to feel like a Jack Torrance-esque moment was just around the corner, but fortunately there were no axes handy.
I had a meltdown right before I turned in the final version of my collection, over trying to re-write a particular story. Lots of crying, frantic pacing, and a few days w/out sleep. At the time, I was living in a cabin in the woods and started to feel like a Jack Torrance-esque moment was just around the corner, but fortunately there were no axes handy.
I punched one of my stuffed animals. Bad move. Next day got home from boyfriend’s: my room was trashed, my computer destroyed, my clothes thrown out into the street. Since then, I’ve learned to breathe, bite my pillow, bear it.
I punched one of my stuffed animals. Bad move. Next day got home from boyfriend’s: my room was trashed, my computer destroyed, my clothes thrown out into the street. Since then, I’ve learned to breathe, bite my pillow, bear it.
Everything about this comment is deliciously right.
Everything about this comment is deliciously right.
haha this is hilarious
haha this is hilarious
I once smashed my bulletin board; I had received two rejections in the mail after working a horrendous 10-hour shift at the newspaper (Charlotte Observer). And I once smashed our coffee table by slamming a big art book — Diane Arbus? Robert Hughes’ “Shock of the New”? — down on it after a particularly fruitless day at my writing desk. This was a long time ago. Now I just internalize the violence.
I once smashed my bulletin board; I had received two rejections in the mail after working a horrendous 10-hour shift at the newspaper (Charlotte Observer). And I once smashed our coffee table by slamming a big art book — Diane Arbus? Robert Hughes’ “Shock of the New”? — down on it after a particularly fruitless day at my writing desk. This was a long time ago. Now I just internalize the violence.
Mostly internalized. I worship myself or fucking hate myself depending on how much, how often and how well I’m writing. However, I have not attempted suicide and don’t have any plans, so, as a writer, I guess that’s something to hang my beret on despite the internalized violence. I have not worn a beret either.
Mostly internalized. I worship myself or fucking hate myself depending on how much, how often and how well I’m writing. However, I have not attempted suicide and don’t have any plans, so, as a writer, I guess that’s something to hang my beret on despite the internalized violence. I have not worn a beret either.
I’m deeply suspicious of writers who don’t freak out over their writing at some point. Something I once wrote caused me to pummel my firsts into a highway sign in order to shake the overwhelming sense of emotional anguish that I had just spilled onto the page. That was some time ago when I was more confused. I’ve replaced much of this energy with extremely vigorous walks and howls of varying pitch into the New York night. But I am calm and amicable when around people. If my dreams become more intense and my sleeping habits deteriorate, I remain a respectable dancer and a good tipper.
I’m deeply suspicious of writers who don’t freak out over their writing at some point. Something I once wrote caused me to pummel my firsts into a highway sign in order to shake the overwhelming sense of emotional anguish that I had just spilled onto the page. That was some time ago when I was more confused. I’ve replaced much of this energy with extremely vigorous walks and howls of varying pitch into the New York night. But I am calm and amicable when around people. If my dreams become more intense and my sleeping habits deteriorate, I remain a respectable dancer and a good tipper.
Once trashed my apartment by throwing every book / manuscript / piece of paper I owned at various walls. This was after a friend’s suicide. He was an artist. I began to seriously doubt why anyone should give a shit about creativity. It took a few weeks before I was able to clean up the mess. I just sort of shuffled through books and paper for a while. It was probably a really good thing that I did that.
Once trashed my apartment by throwing every book / manuscript / piece of paper I owned at various walls. This was after a friend’s suicide. He was an artist. I began to seriously doubt why anyone should give a shit about creativity. It took a few weeks before I was able to clean up the mess. I just sort of shuffled through books and paper for a while. It was probably a really good thing that I did that.
I once threw everything I had written away — hard copy, computer files, everything.
I once threw everything I had written away — hard copy, computer files, everything.
I don’t freak out about my writing when it’s just me making shit up. I freak out when my writing is out in the world. I guess, then, it is not writing that freaks me out, but rather, publishing.
I don’t freak out about my writing when it’s just me making shit up. I freak out when my writing is out in the world. I guess, then, it is not writing that freaks me out, but rather, publishing.
Punched through a plate glass window. Got a few stitches. Worth it.
Punched through a plate glass window. Got a few stitches. Worth it.
I go outside and throw things against the brick wall. Or I pull at my hair and claw myself until I have red gashes. I only do this when I sit down at the computer and can think of absolutely nothing to write or I write something and loathe it.
I go outside and throw things against the brick wall. Or I pull at my hair and claw myself until I have red gashes. I only do this when I sit down at the computer and can think of absolutely nothing to write or I write something and loathe it.
every single mother fucking day of my motherfucking life……
except Tuesdays. Lost is on Tuesdays. And when I’m reading.
every single mother fucking day of my motherfucking life……
except Tuesdays. Lost is on Tuesdays. And when I’m reading.
you weren’t in estes park, were you? that would have been creepy. i went to that hotel a few years ago in the middle of the day, drank quite a few fat tires, and still felt weirded out.
you weren’t in estes park, were you? that would have been creepy. i went to that hotel a few years ago in the middle of the day, drank quite a few fat tires, and still felt weirded out.
i hear you on that, edward.
but i freak out over other shit besides writing though too. freaking out seems necessary, if not good. post freak out is a time of growth.
i hear you on that, edward.
but i freak out over other shit besides writing though too. freaking out seems necessary, if not good. post freak out is a time of growth.
I’m about one more unwritten page away from getting a navy blue mohawk. The urge is really something else. Unexplainable. This is probably a good example of freaking out about my writing. I feel like some sort of physical “fuck what everyone thinks” is necessary to propel the ability to write a book that fucks “what everyone thinks.” My new book is called FLORA THE WHORE, and on the excellent advice of a writer and editor we all greatly admire, I’m making it personal this time, in a way that WE TAKE ME APART was not.
I’m about one more unwritten page away from getting a navy blue mohawk. The urge is really something else. Unexplainable. This is probably a good example of freaking out about my writing. I feel like some sort of physical “fuck what everyone thinks” is necessary to propel the ability to write a book that fucks “what everyone thinks.” My new book is called FLORA THE WHORE, and on the excellent advice of a writer and editor we all greatly admire, I’m making it personal this time, in a way that WE TAKE ME APART was not.
i cry and have sex with people i don’t like
i cry and have sex with people i don’t like
You people rule.
You people rule.
exactly this, except i’m alone
exactly this, except i’m alone
I smoke entire packs of cigarettes, drink diet coke non stop, cry, stop eating, stop sleeping, stop speaking, listen to showtunes, and read Sylvia Plath out loud to myself. Then sometimes I attempt to reread everything else I’ve ever written. I think there’s absolutely no way I could be any more miserable, then I remember that this is actually my idea of fun, and it’s what I’ll be doing for the rest of my life, because I absolutely couldn’t have it any other way.
I smoke entire packs of cigarettes, drink diet coke non stop, cry, stop eating, stop sleeping, stop speaking, listen to showtunes, and read Sylvia Plath out loud to myself. Then sometimes I attempt to reread everything else I’ve ever written. I think there’s absolutely no way I could be any more miserable, then I remember that this is actually my idea of fun, and it’s what I’ll be doing for the rest of my life, because I absolutely couldn’t have it any other way.