Too many arseholes, too little bullets

Writing can be fucking hard. I’m writing this in past tense but this writers block is well and truly present. You see, in an effort to get re-inspired to write again I’ve so far resorted to so many tactics, tricks and basic magic to get myself to start writing again [see…I told you just wrote ‘write again’ twice in one sentence…fuuuuuuck I hate writing….actually that’s a lie, for the most part of the last few months I’ve spent reading all the comments to the last piece for which I’m eternal grateful. Was so lovely to receive so much support when revealing things about yourself…and that said, I’ve screen-shot all of your comments and still look at them when I need a hug]. Anyway long story short, nothing seems to work. So instead I’m going to write about not being able to write and see where this takes me….

First trick was putting on Toto’s ‘Africa’ and letting those glorious beats echo through the house [I mean c’mon, if that doesn’t get you fired up about writing….or dancing at Eve nightclub (RIP) then what will?]…but sadly that just got me on a tangent of working out the exact lyrics and whether Kilimanjaro rises likes an empress? temptress? Olympus???? above the Seeeerengeti. [FYI the correct answer is ‘Olympus’…where I got ‘empress’ I don’t know…and how I even thought a gigantic mountain could be some red-lingerie-clad 1940s floozy temptressing it’s way over the Serengeti, also beats me].

Anyway then I decided to fall back on ye ol’ faithful…wine. Nothing more validating as a wannabe writer than tapping away at your masterpiece, token wooden grey-lead pencil carefully poised behind your ear to serve no function, “gently” sipping wine, looking out the window and thinking to yourself “I basically AM Ernest Hermingway”….except for the fact that despite all his crazy antics and debauchery, Hemmingway still managed to write incredible novels. I on the other hand still have my grey-lead pencil and a hangover.

For the last effort to get re-inspired to write again [yes this is my final trick], I dug up my old journal which was very aptly titled “Too many arseholes, too little bullets”….yep I’m not even joking. Apparently 15 year old Arani loved nothing more than a bloody, good rant…and how times have changed. So who are these arseholes I apparently don’t have enough bullets for? Well this may come as a shock but it would appear that I would be…hmmm how to say this…extremely anti-establishment. My teenage journal is essentially hundreds of pages of how much I hate the institution of school, how I’m going to revolutionise the students to revolt and somehow by starting a revolution in my private girls school also overthrow John Howard at the same time.

There are some true gems living in this journal; from the quite normal teenage-younger-sister-angst to an exploration of my nerdiness [direct quote: “I’m a totally different person after my SAC on Tuesday”…for those who don’t know a ‘SAC’ is just an assignment in Year 12 but evidently in my case it also served the purpose of providing spiritual guidance], finally there is just the down right weird – there seem to be a lot of illustrations of teachers and Liberal party politicians in various compromising positions such as having eyeballs chopped off and sewn onto your bum…again I should emphasise that I had a lot of teenage angst.

But obviously a journal does get you thinking about what parts of yourself you can laugh at and what parts you feel like you’ve skimped on. I can almost guarantee that 15 year old Arani would be disappointed that I went from a raging-private-school-version-of-Che-Guevara to someone who works in Excel a lot. But the fact is you don’t lose those parts of yourself. Sure they get muted by your environment [ie. I would never make any friends if I was constantly trying to unionise them and make them sign enterprise bargain agreements when ordering KFC] but even beyond the muting, who gives a shit if you’re not the astronaut or plumber or ballerina you thought you’d be.

Ok so this whole writing for writing’s sake didn’t really go anywhere and probably hasn’t taught anyone anything. But at least 65 year old Arani will get a real hoot [yes old people get ‘hoots’ whereas young people get ‘lols’] from reading this.

More writing to come. I feel my mojo returning.