you know who has writers block? the ugh percent.
the over fed and over thinking.
bukowski never had no damn writers block.
the poor and hungry can write and write and write.
ever kiss a girl who hasnt been kissed properly in a long time? she’ll kiss you all night. you’ll wake up and she’s kissing you. you leave for work and she needs to give you one two three four more kisses so you’ll miss yr bus.
the words want to come out of you. you know you have stories to tell thoughts to express feelings to emote blushes to gush. africans dont get eating disorders or peanut allergies.
this is all american bs that we thrust on ourselves to stop ourselves from being vulnerable and deep and interesting and magical. imagine if tolstoy and shakespeare and hemingway and twain said aw no one wants to hear any more stories about the mighty mississippi or fingering anna karenina or drinking in DTLA. imagine if van gogh listened to that little voice in his ear saying no one wants any more fucked up fields of weeds growing beneath the twisty blue sky.
vincent van did the exact right thing, he cut off that voice in his ear and mailed it to his gay lover.
part of the job of being creative is jumping over the obstacles that appear in our way to the goal: and the goal is to write down the dreams the angels are whispering. sure they could write it themselves but its better when it comes through us.
its like when someone covers dylan. or when springsteen sings an old 60s tune during the fifth encore.
it’s our jobs to write write write dance drink party write kiss rock fuck rinse and repeat.