Starting Is Demeaning: A Short Story

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Starting is demeaning. The last thing I want to do is pretend I know what I'm doing - to entertain fantasies of leaving my job and writing for any kind of living or fashionable hobby. It feels so bad when it starts out. If you take things as seriously as I do, whatever you try writing about will dig its heels into the ground, and it will not budge. Anxiety about important things has a way of squeezing the rind of the mind like juice, forcing the writer to turn to some desperate plucking and hair-tearing.

The worst thing is the prelim sticky mindedness about yourself and things you’ll need to do or be. Trivialities get more talkative. I gloss through the ghosts of Tinder dates past, like Gabriel, who humidified my room with boar sweat and skin, watermarks at 6am. Or Irene, who I bet still likes me. I forgot to clean the bathroom. I wonder what’s
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In the beginnings of writing such a moment or darkness or event, the important parts are skinned alive. With regard to memory: how horrible it is, that a series of moments so talented in their own right could be turned to junk by their father’s own hand! The jarring quality of the whole mess is so distilled, marked by hesitance… The writing and framing of the memory feels so important to get right that it incapacitates you - small Writer - leaving you crawling and capturing all over the page like butterflies; capitals, scrapes, and shapes leaving redness until you open this same page the next day and it looks............worse, despite all the work. Ink can be terrifying in this way. Giving life and tenderness to a moment means, at first, taking some tenderness out of the moment itself, as it quickly becomes evident that language can be blocking, twisting fingers until it hurts to write
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