I'm not doing very well at being a writer. I've not written anything for months. I've got so many issues attached to writing, now, that I can't even start anything. Yup, a real muddle.
"Why do you want to write?"
Well, at the core of it, I like making things. I like the idea of constructing a world -- hence the interest in SF. Should have been an architect, I think. Characters? Not so hot on that. Plot? ummm, it all seems to be trite and pre-defined. But the building part feels good. Until I try to put it on paper.
So many fears. So much mental politics. I really am in a bit of a muddle. I easily walk away from writing when my life's good. When it starts flopping I come back. Life's pretty sweet at the moment, but I'm not really finding any substance to the day. That's why I'm back.
Probably wander off again soon.
I’m the skinny guy taking his first, clumsy steps into an elite gym. On my way to the lockers I see Cogito thrashing out the final rep of his 600kg bench press and I watch Arron89 complete a three-and-a-half minute mile. There’s NaCi striding around the free-weights section with two 80kg plates hanging from his arms. He walks past the squat rack where Pallas yells encouragement to Maestro, who’s busy grinding a ton to full extension. I like it here, but I’m very, very under qualified.
I get to the lockers and unpack my bag. It seems that I’ve forgotten my belt and my gloves. Perhaps on purpose, perhaps from over-excitement. I’m self-conscious and I drop my locker key. It skids across the tiled floor and I walk over to retrieve it from underneath a wooden bench. I stand and realise that from here I can see the whole gym and all of its patrons. I can smell their determination and taste their skill. It cowers me and I decide that, for the time being, I’ll just watch.
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