I’m hitting a bit of a rut. A rut brought on by having a high paying job and a home life that’s just peachy-fucking-keen. What kind of a problem is that to have? I should probably just shut up, knuckle down, and say to myself, “Hey, this is all gravy, don’t fucking complain just because the novel manuscript is collecting dust, the writing isn’t coming, and you think more about buying couch covers than about being an all-time-fuck-off famous writer.”
Yet, I’ve found it difficult to say that. Maybe I just like to complain.
The starving writer myth is just that, a myth. Nobody works better just because they consume nothing but instant noodles and cheap coffee. Shit food and being behind in the rent does not fuel creativity. Sure, being hungry for success when you’re equally hungry for a sandwich might be a bit of an edge, but that’s all it is.
I’ve come to terms with that now. Because I’m no longer 19.
So why the problems with success outside of the artistic arena? Why the problems with having enough money in the bank to pay rent, buy food, and drink good booze? I think it might have something to do with a shift of focus, as in, I’ve shifted my focus away from artistic things, and have instead poured my efforts into my actual job. Now, there shouldn’t be anything wrong with that, yet I feel these bullshit pangs of longing every time I look at my desk piled high with unfinished projects, notes, and written works.
I’m still me, I haven’t grown up, I’m just a different me. Hence my rut.
Time to consult rut experts.