For A Minute There, I Lost Myself
The last couple of weeks, my writing’s been very sporadic, both here and scriptwise. All fairly simplistic and, frankly, a bit shite. I’ve found it quite tricky to focus, I’ve inadvertently let my personal life overwhelm me a bit, weights plummeted, found myself drinking too much.In an effort to turn that around, I’ve gone through my calendar and junked pretty much everything I was going to do and everyone I was going to see over the next couple of weeks, beginning today. No booze, no trying to make funnies, no Halloween parties, just stay in and get on with it. Hitting the work hard is what’s done well for me the last few months and I shouldn’t have let myself slip out of that habit. Whilst it’s particularly true of the running, starting from zero after a lapse with anything is always a bit demoralising. I had a bit of Bukowski inspiration last night and just let myself feel a bit shit this morning instead of racing to the library and while unproductive it’s been cathartic enough for me to want to crack on this afternoon. It was necessary. Writing is the only time I know what I’m doing on this planet, that I ever feel the weight of my worth.
With that in mind, it’s frustrating to admit that I’ve been feeling fairly uncreative at the moment too (wanky, I know, but true), so hopefully next week with the Tamasha rehearsals, performance and starting Hightide, it should get me firing. Been thinking I might try to get out of London, maybe between the 9th and the 11th November if I can. Any ideas of where to head? Somewhere East would make a lot of sense, I figure. The silver lining to all this is that my hand exercises are already helping my right thumb hurt less – soon I will have painless joint movement and a handshake like a can crusher.