Write To Believe

A testament on how lazy a writer I've become will be evidenced on the following lines. You see, we have lost an amazing writer today. Nikki Harris was truly on some other shit. If you weren't a reader, I'm sure the archives are accessible. The link is on my blogroll under DeliciousClam.

But the reason I've called myself out on the writing tip is simply this: I want to make this post about Nikki, but it's gonna come out being all about me.

I started blogging with the intention of being as raw as possible. I used to read Nikki and realize a fatal flaw in my writing. It wasn't that I was raw, it was that I was mean. Nikki had the ability to be as raw as they come, but there was an emotion, a passion, a REALNESS underneath it all. Realness is a word that gets thrown around much too often, but it's what comes to mind when I think of Nikki and her blog.

I was a part of a couple of online writing groups with Nikki once upon a time. We (she, I, in one incarnation, Will, and a couple of other bloggers) would come up with writing assignments, as difficult as we could make them and try to write to them. It was fun and breezy, but it allowed us to witness each other at the height of our imaginative powers. I appreciated the push.

I've been writing recreationally for the past couple of weeks after a lengthy layoff. I'd say it was due to being blocked, but really it was due to being scared that my talent isn't what I think it is. I read Nikki, Hassan, Slish, Nisa, Allison, et al, and I think "Why the f*ck do I even pretend to call myself a writer?" I've come to the conclusion that I write because I can. It comes easy to me. But when I read a writer like Nikki, I know there's a depth that I can tap, another level I can reach that I'm not coming close to yet. I can go deeper. And I have my muse.

-Knockout Zed.

Just wondering...

I'm waiting for everybody to leave the office so that I don't have to make that fucking weekend based small talk that people insist on making. I seriously think I might have social anxiety disorder. I fucking HATE talking to people, and that's the crux of my job. I talk to people about city wide decisions, usually in a public forum, but increasingly in a face to face situation. Muthafuckas don't stop talking, ever, unless I tell them the conversation has to end. And that's getting to be a problem, because I can't even allow the conversation to start anymore. I'm avoiding 'em like nobody's business.

I'm waiting for the fat, gassy bastard that's in the office next to mine to leave right now, simply because I don't wanna say "enjoy your weekend" to that smelly fucker. Yeah, I know it's sad, but I can't help it.

Gotdamn it! Some bastard just came into my office to say "have a nice weekend", right as I wrote that last sentence. Seriously, fuck that guy.

Well, I'm about to bite the bullet because sitting here is worse torture than talking to these fuckers.

Peace,
KZ

Cocoonville

Something's off. I can't put my finger on it, but it is. I feel like retreating from the world entirely. Disconnecting cable, ditching DSL, stomping out my celly, the whole nine. I'm overstimulated. I can't stand the outside world. At TAD's crib, she doesn't have internet or cable, and whenever I leave there and come home, I feel remarkably refreshed. On top of that I can turn off my phone and not feel like I'm missing anything. I know all this is specious reasoning. I obviously feel better because I'm spending time with my wife. But seriously, when I come back to Satan's Anus, I'm inundated with THE WORLD. News, important and unimportant, phone calls, emails, Facebook, and other bullshit overwhelm me. That urgency seeps back into my life, even though none of it is really urgent at all. I don't miss my favorite TV program until I'm reminded that I missed it. Fuck the 3,000 th forward from my Uncle Louie on the N.U.D. certain companies employ. I'm perfectly OK missing out. I didn't used to be, but now, I think I can take it.

Will I be perceived as a freak if I retreat from the world? Nobody would even know about the cable thing. The internet thing would be the hardest, but I could easily make that up at work. And if I only answered TAD and my mother's calls, I don't think I'd be missed. It might be worth a trial run.

Peace,
KZ