razorblade moment

Since I'm obviously not sleeping, I'm instead wasting my night time pondering why I write. Sometimes simplicity is the only right thing, straight forward, honest and brave.
Making it complex is making it weaker.

I'm a fucking wreck.
I write to get fast cheap emotional kicks.
That's all nowadays.
It could have been worse. I could just write to get a whole bunch of nice feedback, and while the fact is that almost everyone who writes wants a little of that, it still isn't mainly why I write.

But it's not good.
I've traveled the path from writing with my emotions on my sleeve and my heart in my hand, just as every kid does, to a place where I actually put some hard work into it at one point.
It scared me shitless. Yeah, go figure. And those were the years where I got the most feedback, where I learned and developed my prose and poetry the most (Swedish language though), and where I actually saw my words in print, granted along with others in a very modest little collection (and some fairy tale stuff, also very modest stuff), but still, I worked with it, and it was hard.

And today I'm back to kid phase again, obviously.
I write to get cheap and fast emotional kicks (only I write a little better today than when I was 15).

This is what I have become.
For a wannabee-writer, this is the weakest and most abominable thing to land on. It's better to write really fucking bad, but with focus and devotion, and I do honestly mean that.

There is no fun-land, stay in the drawer/notebook closet and quit whining, or get your ass out there in the grit.

Another cold track for me to follow. More work.