Feeling a little bereft of impetus at the moment. Not really feeling like there is anything for me to write about at the moment, and yet, write I must.

So prepare yourself. Put on your yellow ducky boots because we will be wading into my stream of consciousness today, and trust me, you don’t want to get any of that on ya.

Not unless you’ve had your shots. (I suggest vodka. )

Been having a sleepy day, which might explain the someone barren state of my consciousness. Usually my mental state is overrun with thoughts, notions, ideas, and emotions, all crawling all over each other trying to get out and making a terrible mess.

But right now, I think most of them are still asleep. Truth be told, I do not feel much like writing right now, but it has to be done. Writing on this blog every day is the one thing that adds purpose to my otherwise barren and pointless life, and I am long past the point where I feel like doing this writing every day is a choice.

The very thought of missing a day fills me with horror. So yup. Gotta write.

And there is much truth to the idea that the one thing it takes to be a writer is writing. If you write, you are a writer. It seems childishly obvious, but it’s true, and it is a surprisingly easy thing to lose track of, especially for younger writers.

It is all too easy to think you are a writer when all you do is think about the things you would write or could writer or are going to write some day.

But that is the easy part. Ideas are easy. I am not saying they are all equal, mind you, but having ideas requires very little effort when you are a creative type person.

Writing is the act of taking those ideas and turning them into reality. That is true of all art. Artists create their art. It doesn’t matter whether that art sells or whether what is made is perfect or whether it is exactly how you imagined it.

If you are trying, you are an artist, or in my case, a writer. Period. Stop, and you go back to being a would-be, a wannabee, and it is only when you stop trying that you start truly failing.

As I say this, my lazy artistic conscience pricks me with its pitchfork and reminds me that I have not written any fiction since last November. And so while this daily blather counts, I am not truly being a writer except in the most literal of senses.

I am like an athlete who trains and trains but never competes. Sure, spending a few hours a day at the patting cage is technically sort of playing baseball. But not really.

So I will try to nudge myself towards sending out my stories to various outlets for rejection. Rejection is progress when you are a writer.

All the great ones got tons of rejections before they even sold a thing. So really, it is time to go out there and get hurt. Earn some scars, pay my dues.

It’s just so much easier to just fuck around like this all day.

And the real trap is losing your ability to resist the path of least resistance. It is always easier to just go with the flow. Do it long enough, and you become a passive participant in your own life, unable to make any real choices and ended up bruised and battered and worn down by the obstacles in life that you just helplessly rammed into because you lost your ability to steer around them.

And to the outside world, you are entirely the author of your own sad fate. But you know that it is not that simple. Mental illness makes it so hard to cope with the world. Most days it is hard enough just to cope with your own inner world. Actual reality is out of the question.

So you just huddle down in your little boat, making yourself as small as possible so that the sides of the boat block out your view of the horrible outside world, and when your lack of view or control causes your craft to crash on easily avoided rocks, you just bury your face against the keel of your boat and cover your ears and wait for it all to go away.

And hey, for long stretches of time (between crashes), it is smooth sailing and no trouble. And that is all the reinforcement your passive victim lifestyle needs.

Sure, it sucks, but you keep doing it anyway, so you must think it is better than any of the alternatives, such as actually sitting up in the boat, grabbing the oars, and taking responsibility for your life.

After all, either way, your life is the result of the choices you have made. You are in charge of your boat no matter what. After all, there’s nobody there but you. Whether you choose to grab those oars or choose to lay on the keel with your eyes closed, you are still making a choice.

So if you continue to lay there with your hands over your ears, you must think that this is what will nake you the happiest. That getting up and steering is so bad, that the illusion of non-control is so precious, that no other option is preferable.

Or maybe you think there are no other options. That this is the best you could do. And maybe you are right. Maybe you are not capable of anything else.

But ask yourself this : do you want to be capable of steering? Do you want to be stronger and more capable and ready to take charge of your self and your life?

Or could the truth be that even if you had the option of steering, you would reject it and then forget that you even knew about it because it frightens you so much?

After all, if you could do something… well, then you’d have to do it, right?

Thank goodness you are helpless, then.

Or are you?