these past two weeks have felt incredibly long. i always forget about that. ready to just ring in the new years and call it 2024 and watch dog day afternoon (new yearly tradition that i started for myself in 2021 because we got hit with a snowstorm). feels like i've been running around with no time to chill. finally got to actually clean my apartment yesterday and that felt really nice. also, i am looking forward to starting my new planner. the hobonichi cousin was great until it got too be too much and now just the size of it is overwhelming for me to do anything with. very excited to be trying out the a6 take a note for the year.
when you're an artist, and especially a working artist, artists' block is a non-option. you get destructive.
you get mean. you get angry.
the block in your head is a pile of sludge.
you reach out and try to grab more things from the world around you. "if i can just get this detail a little more realistic" /
"if i can just borrow this one person's personality trait" / "if i can just make it a little darker, a little grittier, a little more tangible, then maybe i can fix it" and before you know it you've written everyone you know and care about into horrible ways. you hurt them in your stories as someone else, because you are trying so hard to just have a breakthrough. and it doesn't work.
you erase the manuscript when you realize what a monster you've been. you scratch the name out on the page, refuse to take ownership of your own monstrousness.
you loop back. you start again. you don't notice it's a little easier for you to become that monster this time. easier to borrow things from the people you love. easier to hurt fictionalized pieces of them. making fun of your wife's fear of the dark is easier now, isn't it?
you scratch it out when you realize she'd be horrified of what you did to her.
and next time it's easier. and easier. and easier. and still you reset. the black sludge is in the pen ink now.
"it's not a loop, it's a spiral."