I wish I could write. Writing is not hard. I don’t have writer’s block. That doesn’t exist. That’s not a real thing. I have lazy writer syndrome. That’s a real thing. I need to take massive action is what I need to do. Like I did with Naughty Week. No days off.
Right now I’m hungover in Newport Beach. I drank a country album’s worth of beer last night. Feeling it now. It was fun, though. I could write about it. That’s the best way to get rid of so-called writer’s block—write your way out of it.
It’s beautiful down here. Sunny and cool as I type this into the Google Docs app on my phone. If I didn’t have my responsibilities with the girls, maybe I’d move down here. I do feel a little stuck in a Los Angeles bubble. I lack a certain freedom. I also lack a certain income. I’m not sure if I could afford a one-bedroom down here. Definitely not a two-bedroom.
I have a long day ahead of me. I don’t want to do anything. I just want to veg out and watch movies and blame it all on writer’s block. I can’t do much more than that anyway. I’m broke. I’m sick of being broke. I should get paid on Monday, Tuesday at the latest.
Yesterday I ate three slices of pizza and a giant sandwich. I devoured that sandwich. It was good but really salty. This is doing no good for my high blood pressure. Or my writer’s block. I wanted to lose ten pounds in three months. I’ve probably put on weight the last few days.
I’m fat and hungover in Newport Beach. My inner Bukowski surfaces. I need to read today. And exercise. And recover.
The lazy writer comes and goes and must be dealt with. Writer’s block, on the other hand, is just a myth.
