For crying out loud. Because everyone else cries inside. No you may not feel pain, no you may not smile. We are in the twenty-first century, not the 50's, so please, let us live before we die. And for crying out loud, what am I supposed to feel? Virginia Woolf wrote in her diary that the real pleasure was writing, not being read. That I agree with, but if being read has imprinted my name in your head, why not? I do not want prestige, I do not want money. Let the second place slide(what good, second place? Almost there, but not quite. Left me hanging there by a thread. Go on, or back out? Am I a writer, or am I too try?) , let the money go to some worthier cause. I just want you. You. I can't give you a name. Sometimes it's just one letter, because I do not want to make you human. Not if I cannot tell you how much it hurts that I cannot be with you. Not if there's no hope. Perhaps it's all better if you stay just my story, just my escape. Fantasy is meant to be fantasy, and I do not wish to have you become somehow both 3-d and flattened.
What good was the story anyways? I did not change the world, I did not create anything genius. They were just words, pretty decorative words, like moulding on the ceiling or scrolls. They lack insight, they lacked depth and emotion. They were pebbles, hard little stones, things that weren't alive. Something pains inside of me whenever I reread this piece. Always the misgivings; without them I'd be dead. Is it a perfectionistic streak? No. I only wish to improve the literary world, if not the entire world. But still, you couldn't wake up to a story like that.
It feels like a dry spell for now. Waiting for the glorious torrent of words, but nothing. This will not come in handy for my essay. Why prove a point? Why try to make everyone think the way you think? Oh, how I wish to be that scholary type, but I'm a simple-minded bohemian poet. Proving a point is well, quite pointless.
How I despise writer's block, especially in a time like this. I feel inadequate, and then I become self-destructive and abusive. I'm young, I have feelings, why can I not put them on paper? Scripts, poems, essays, they all need to be written, and I have a pen in my hand and a mind with relatively high IQ, and I am not moving? It feels like I'm in a bed that's too big; it feels wasteful and lonely too.
Perhaps I'm channeling my feelings to much into my acting? I cannot deny my anxiety for this play. I try, believe me I do. I know my lines, I've thought endlessly about this little character, but the play itself is not working. The set's horrid, the actors apathetic and the script has a devastingly incorrect view of women. If only I was working with better actors, if only Neil Simon didn't do 600 remakes of one play, if only...
But I must say, my life is not bad right now. So I have unrequited love, so my writing is close to crap, so I'm shackled to horrible plays. But not bad. For now.