New Yorker 2011Not again—

the itch to write, nothing

to say.

Actually, I always have something to say. The question is: is it worth saying? My mind— not my real self— says, Duh, no. How does it know, anyway? Who made it the boss of me? The problem is, I listen. And stagnate. Great. Mind won, D zero. Shut up Mind. Let me go read some funny. Laughter is the best medicine, right? I check in on Jenny Lawson, a.k.a. The Bloggess. And David Thorne, a.k.a. 27b/6. I crack up and belly laugh and gasp and I want to stop reading because really, all that laughing hurts but I can’t, they’re that good. I’m overcome with gratitude and awe and pleasure/pain. These two are so talented, so dangerous, so going-for-it, SO THEMSELVES, I might as well kill myself. But then, how will I read them? I want to be that funny! I want to write that well! I want to try! My mind— not my real self— whines: Why bother? You’re not good enough. You’re not worthy. Worst of all: Who cares? BARF BUCKETS!! my real Self cuts in, DISGUSTO! FEH! YUK!! SHUT UP. WHY DON’T YOU FOLLOW YOUR OWN PROFESSIONAL ADVICE? STOP COMPARING YOURSELF TO OTHERS. GET ON WITH IT. Ha. Write on. Good one, Self.

Imagination is more important than knowledge. ALBERT EINSTEIN

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