Fiction Therapy

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For the last few days, I have been a dick to my family. Not the throwing dishes and screaming kind of dick, but more distant and cold. So, this morning as I watch the Sun crest the mountains, I thought to myself, “what is your fucking problem asshole?”

That’s what I call myself, asshole. It’s a term of endearment.

My days have been normal, I’ve been active, the stuff that usually leaves me in a pretty good mood is being taken care of. So what is my problem?

Writing.

This whole week, minus a few days, I have not written a single word. No self expression, no venting on the page, nothing. Now, I know better than that. I am a fiction junkie, and none scratches the itch more than my own.

Now I am driving down in an empty stretch of highway, the crevices lined with cracked tar in a feeble attempt to delay the inevitable disintegration of the road, and I am wondering why. What is the hold up? With the end so near, the end of the beginning anyway, I should be speeding toward the finish line, but I ain’t. Last week, yes, but not this week.

There is a condition I’m sure is not unique to me, but it is a habit I have a hard time breaking. This is where I give up, more specifically this is where I used to give up.

Not this time bitch.

If there is such a thing as the alchemy of everyday life , then time and pressure are the forces which distil thought into product. I am holding myself accountable for this lack of motivation. I tell you all the time that you can do anything. Time to put my money where my filthy mouth is.

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