Recently I’ve been struggling with two things:
- Finding the inspiration to write
- Finding the fucking remote to my stereo
And though these things may sound unrelated, they’re not. My radio is currently stuck on 96.7 and without that remote I can’t change the station. This means that should I try to flood my house with music in order to piss off the elephant who lives above me, I’m going to be blasting Ke$ha, Britney Spears, GaGa, or Beiber. I have nothing against some of these artists, I sometimes enjoy them when they are playing in a club and I’m too whisked away on whiskey to recognize that I’m fist pumping to GaGa (a not uncommon occurrence on sixth street. But everything has it’s time and place and ‘my house’ and ‘anytime’ are not the proper responses.
So how has this been affecting me? It’s more of the same. Always more of the same thing and I’m running out of Chris Brown jokes. My ears were so busy with these artists that I struggled to find my own voice. Every time I tried to find a rhythm I would default to some tune or another that had been looping all day. What was the response?
Turn it off. No more radio. No more outside influences.
And so I sat in silence with a tumbler of whiskey for an hour at night. I would end up doodling on pages between 12a and 1a. Uninspired, unproductive, and unmotivated. I pulled up some old pieces and tried to edit some. I’d edit up cutting too much, adding some, and then just leaving it the way it was.
Justin Beiber has a movie and I have… an empty whiskey bottle. Unacceptable.
And now you’re thinking
Eric, I’m a writer. I know about writer’s block. Y U NO offer constructive advice?
Here’s how I broke free in a truly Bro fashion:
- Make a list of everyone you want to destroy.
- Make a list of everyone you want to make love to.
- Drink a lot of alcohol.
- Write in a descriptive fashion about each item
- Try to connect the stories
When I woke up in the morning, drool bleeding the ink of the page onto my cheek, I saw something both awesome and terrible. What I created was something sexy and violent and deserving to be burned: about 5-6 pages worth of therapy. Now, going over it I can find some diamonds of inspiration in the heaping pile of rage and alcohol induced wordvomit (and real vomit). From those diamonds I have seeds for new pieces, which will be emerging soon.