It’s a warm summer’s midday and I’m sitting at the table in my mother’s one room flat, a milk-less Earl Grey on one side and a half-drunk water on the other. The camera’s waiting on its tripod, the violin is out and I brought my sketching equipment near the bed before going to sleep last night or at five am this morning, to be more exact. I can’t decide whether to concentrate on my to dos, what I’ve done already, schoolwork, job hunting, the glorious songs echoing from the speakers. The word count haunts over me and I feel like each word just makes the writing worse and worse. I stop counting of seemingly unavoidable mistakes. I feel like a fraud.
That’s how I felt when I started writing again. It means two things: I should take up reading grammar before bed again and I should also write a lot more often. I’m not going to make any silly promises of daily words to be written – silly for me, that is, because I will never ever end up fulfilling those so they lose their point completely – or decide to blog daily or every other day, even if I can’t squeeze more than fifty words out of my filthy guts. However, I’ve recognised a problem and problems only exist to be solved or dying trying.
Problems are an interesting thing in life. We need an ideal amount of them each day or life becomes dull and starts to feel indifferent, but an amount exceeding our capacity makes us crumble as well. There are all these ways of getting over them; some people ask for help, some ponder them inside their heads, some drink, some run, some whine whine whine. I’ve probably done all of those, and I dare to say, so have you. The worst option was obviously whining, since it doesn’t really do any good in the end. What do I get after complaining three hours straight? A fed up and slightly uncomfortable friend with not so fond memories of me, perhaps a little less steam in my system, and a lot more things to complain about… So maybe there are better things to do.