Can't Write, Can't Live

I have severe writing anxiety. I never feel as if I am good enough or that I'll ever write anything good and its getting to the point where I'm not writing anything at all. I haven't written anything in a month and the past year, I've shitted out maybe ten decent poems. I can't write and its always been a soft spot for me and I hate it when people tell me I'm good or talented or gifted because I'm not. Not anymore...
I try to blame it on all the psych meds I'm on, but I'm lying to myself. Its me. I'm messed up. I'm suicidal because I can't write. Because if I can't write I'm not a writer and if I'm not a writer, who am I? Its something I've always been. I'm nothing without words, I'm broken without verses. If I can't write, what's the point of me doing school or leaving the house or breathing. I need help. I need advice. And not a psychiatric evaluation. I need a poet's intervention. I'm sure you guys can understand. Please help me...

i went through a phase almost like that, where i felt i was useless because i couldn't even write. i'd always been able to write at least a diary entry if nothing else, and then, i couldn't. hated everything that came out and it was depressing. but the title of your thread is exactly where i found the problem... if you flip it, you might find it's easier to wait for the words to come to you, or give yourself more incentive to keep trying. because if you can't live it, you can't write it real. be, experience, learn your lights first, then write. i'm still working on that all the time. pretty sure we all are. chin up, buttercup. [:

In 1994, Charles Bukowski was buried in a Los Angeles cemetery, beneath a simple gravestone. The stone memorializes the poet’s name. It recites his dates of birth and death, but adds the symbol of a boxer between the two, suggesting his life was a struggle. And it adds the very succinct epitaph, “Don’t Try.”

There you have it, Bukowski’s philosophy on art and life boiled down to two words. But what do they mean? Let’s look back at the epistolary record and find out.

In October 1963, Bukowski recounted in a letter to John William Corrington how someone once asked him, “What do you do? How do you write, create?” To which, he replied: “You don’t try. That’s very important: ‘not’ to try, either for Cadillacs, creation or immortality. You wait, and if nothing happens, you wait some more. It’s like a bug high on the wall. You wait for it to come to you. When it gets close enough you reach out, slap out and kill it. Or if you like its looks you make a pet out of it.”

So, the key to life and art, it’s all about persistence? Patience? Timing? Waiting for your moment? Yes, but not just that.

Jumping forward to 1990, Bukowski sent a letter to his friend William Packard and reminded him: “We work too hard. We try too hard. Don’t try. Don’t work. It’s there. It’s been looking right at us, aching to kick out of the closed womb. There’s been too much direction. It’s all free, we needn’t be told. Classes? Classes are for asses. Writing a poem is as easy as beating your meat or drinking a bottle of beer.”

The key to living a good life, to creating great art — it’s also about not over-thinking things, or muscling our way through. It’s about letting our talents appear, almost jedi-style. Or is it?

Maybe you could try not trying to write good poems, but simply write something. My point is that it is not about doing something good, but that doing anything is better than nothing: every small step is a victory.
Art and poetry are subjective, but that does not mean that when people say your work is good that you should ignore it. "Remember the compliments you receive, forget the insults; if you succeed in doing this, tell me how."

Though to be quite honest, I am grinning over here (not at you or because of your words) and cannot quite think what reason there is for me to. At least you can hold to the idea of being a writer and having that as your purpose.

Run, walk, exercise, learn, travel, experience, love, rant and rave. Let it out, we're listening and hopefully can give some advice to help.

Its like we tell children to draw us a picture...if it comes from within you, then its beautiful...even if Satan Claus or zombies come to life...:)

You have a recognizable style

it doesn't matter if it's any good or not, write it anyway. The expression is more important that the outcome. All poets get better with time, the more you write the more you'll hone your craft. And read. Reading is soul food for the artist. Music also helps

mikimoondancer said:

In October 1963, Bukowski recounted in a letter to John William Corrington how someone once asked him, “What do you do? How do you write, create?” To which, he replied: “You don’t try. That’s very important: ‘not’ to try, either for Cadillacs, creation or immortality. You wait, and if nothing happens, you wait some more. It’s like a bug high on the wall. You wait for it to come to you. When it gets close enough you reach out, slap out and kill it. Or if you like its looks you make a pet out of it.”

So, the key to life and art, it’s all about persistence? Patience? Timing? Waiting for your moment? Yes, but not just that.

Jumping forward to 1990, Bukowski sent a letter to his friend William Packard and reminded him: “We work too hard. We try too hard. Don’t try. Don’t work. It’s there. It’s been looking right at us, aching to kick out of the closed womb. There’s been too much direction. It’s all free, we needn’t be told. Classes? Classes are for asses. Writing a poem is as easy as beating your meat or drinking a bottle of beer.”

The key to living a good life, to creating great art — it’s also about not over-thinking things, or muscling our way through. It’s about letting our talents appear, almost jedi-style. Or is it?

This is good. I like this. Let the writing pour out of you. Don't overthink it. Stop analyzing it until your face is blue and deprived of oxygen and the brain cell which facilitated the poetic spark has already died.
I'm going to have to read some of Bukowski's poetry. I like him and he's around the era where he might still be confessional. Thank you for this.

Maybe just harden the fuck up.

he's a dick
but completely correct

suck it up sistah
get hurt rub some fn dirt in it,
buy a notebook and a new pen

life sux at first glance,second and third too....

can be quite a few good times in the middle tho.

but no one is responsible for that but you and nobody else can tell you how to make it better. youll fig it out.

Obviously neither  of you 2 fuck tards have had to deal with a mental illness

Maybe rubing dirt on your herpees helps but it does fuck all for a mental illness

hey maybe somebody besides us fucktards will say something to fix all your own bullshit for you,

go ahead and sit around and wait for it.......

let what you have flow from you

is it sad
is it nasty
is it erotic
is it happiness personified
is it chaos
is it trash
is it a dream
is it a night mare


do not fight what wants you to create it, set the daemons loose

let the world be the judge of what you write

fixate you not on the force of perfection

edit after you write, not while you are writing




i do find that when i let not hurting someone that has the choice of not reading what i write, i start to go mad
writing is my release, my way to deal with the parts of me that do not let me be whole...