About the #500words project
Write, delete. Write, delete, and I can feel Twitter calling. Reach for the phone, put the phone down. Twitter will still be there, in 500 words time.
I wrote this post, in my mind, at 4.17am.
Well, the post I wrote took on a specific form, subject matter determined, pronounced fricatives collaborating with vowels and consonants to produce imagined sounds….
Fuck, that’s only 63 words.
Maybe I should go and make a cup of tea, I did only manage 3 short hours of sleep.
Take photo to accompany post.
Upload via the WordPress app.
Decide which version to use.
Regardless of the topic, writing is always difficult for me.
I know what’s going to happen. I’ll get to 500 words, and be disappointed that the post I planned at 4.17am isn’t sitting here before me. The cursor will repeatedly blink, pouring scorn on my pitiful efforts.
It’s what I do.
Yes! That’s what I want to do. I want to sit in bed all day, and write.
Fuck sake, I can’t, I have to go out, circumstance unavoidable.
I was going to write about trust, my mind’s walls daubed in affiliated grafity, ugly words crudely crossed through, considered words outlined in gaudy spray paint in order that they be the focus at a later date.
Damn, now I’m wandering into the realm of talking bollocks.
Ummm, yeah, well, no, I don’t mean that I have talking bollocks, because, quite frankly, that would be weird. Especially without a penis attached.
Dear mind, shut the fuck up!
Right, ok, no, I meant that that sounds ridiculous. The analogy, the words, the way they’re linked and constructed. Hmm, I’ll need to rejig that if I find myself exploring that path.
Umm, is rejig even a word?
Yes, it is! Yay, go me…*self headpat with inferred sarcasm*
I peek at my phone;9 Twitter notifications.
What the fuck, I haven’t been on there yet, and I didn’t use it much yesterday either.
Meh, I’ll find out what that’s all about soon enough.
Return to topic in hand.
In hand. Penis. Tease. Wank.
It’s so easy for my mind to wander.
Reason 1,576 why writing is such a struggle.
I look at my notebook, the one I keep for blog post ideas. An informal list(of sorts), currently numbering 7, of topics that sprang to mind at various points over the course of the previous week.
Heteronormative sex script.
Losing sexual identity post hysterectomy.
Punishment dynamics, both the need for, and the destabilising effect upon my psyche if a proposed punishment doesn’t manifest.
Shifting sands, the ambiguity of limits lists.
You don’t choke me anymore.
Validity of sexual desires as a rape survivor(fuck, hefty subject, that one).
Other ideas reside on scraps of paper elsewhere, in other notebooks which were close to hand when an idea struck. I really must collate all that information, all those snippets written, analogies erected, imagery painted by literary means.
‘Sake, now I’m horny.
I’d set myself a time limit so as to encourage creating, not procrastination. I finished 12 minutes ahead of time.
I miss writing, I miss becoming immersed in the words, occasionally drowning in them.
Ouch! Thanks for that, mind. I’m acutely aware of my inability to communicate.
I think I’ll stop there, lest this becomes a ramble, losing sight of the whole point, veering away from the intended path.
Tomorrow I’ll be back. Maybe tomorrow I will have time to sit and write more. To create a post on one of the topics above. Or something else entirely.
I’ll worry about that when I get there.