Scraping By

I’ve decided it doesn’t matter how many words I write in a day. I want to be a writer, so as long as I’m at my computer typing away something abysmal, boring, or pleasurable, that’s good enough for me. I need to work this muscle again. No more expectations or high standards. I can’t meet them. I’ll stare at the goal post waiting for it to move closer even by an inch. Newsflash: it never does. I need to peer down at my feet, wiggle my toes, stretch the arches, and prepare to walk the journey across the field. Getting one point on the scoreboard will be satisfactory. To get these feet walking will be a triumph in its own right. 

I expect and demand too much of my medication. I don’t want to be this person so I wait for them to kick in and hope I’ll magically transform into this perfect version of myself like in Family Matters. Steve will enter his transformation chamber and reemerge as Stefan, a super cool charming bloke who contrasts his nerdy normal baseline. That’s what I want. That's what I expect. Of course, sometimes I’ll feel a high but I’m always at work when this occurs. Why can’t I be at home when the buzz hits so I’m the productive self I want to be? Now I must scrape by, writing a hundred words daily because that’s all I can do. I wrote six drafts of a feature film for cryin’ out loud! What has become of me? I’m a beggar, a bum, settling for pennies and never asking for a buck. But I can be more. I know it. The stories, oh the stories I want to tell. But I must, for now, write what I can. 

Will you look at that? We are over three hundred words today. See? I am capable.