I Can’t Finish Anything

I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I can’t finish shit. I start writing, get into it, then realize I have no fucking idea what I’m writing about, or why I’m writing at all. I keep adding to my drafts, occasionally adding a sentence here and there, but nothing ever gets completed. I know it’s me, but I don’t know how to fix it. I know it’s because I hate everything I do, and not finishing reduces the amount of shit I talk to myself because it’s hard for me to talk shit about something not yet completed, something that might eventually be good. But nope. I hate every post I have on here, but I have hope for every draft. I don’t know. This sucks. I suck. Maybe I need to go back to school and learn how to properly write. I don’t know.

I made it to February sober with the hopes of being able to write after a stretch of not destroying my mind via substances, but my mind is fucked regardless of the shit I ingest.

I think I’m just going to continue to post shit that I’ll never complete. Maybe you all can take it, and make something better, or add onto it to give me inspiration, because, as of now, I feel completely uninspired.

I haven’t started to drink yet, and I know I definitely won’t get shit done if I start to. Maybe getting drunk and spewing on here will do some good. Or maybe I’ll just post a bunch of shit that I’ll wind up deleting manana.

I started writing about a character named Eevee McHale—I’m not sure where I was going, and I’m bored with it:


Eevee hated her apartment. It was old and overpriced and surrounded by homeless people cooking stolen steaks on shopping carts, and gutterpunks shooting up in the corners of boarded up shops they shit and pissed on the previous night. Ambulances and cop cars scream up and down the street on a Sisyphean loop, allowing drug dealers to loudly whisper offers for meth and coke and H and every prescription pill on the market to lost tourists staring down at their phones, nervously typing “anywhere but here” into Google maps, not realizing their phones were broadcasting a signal to every fiending addict in need of cash to feed the gorillas on their backs, until a rare kind soul living in the hood tells them to, “Put that shit away, walk north down Turk St, take a left and walk a block or so until you reach SF City Hall, it’s relatively safe there.”

Eevee knew all this before moving in, but she had no choice—it was all she could afford, and barely afford at that. It took nearly a year to properly furnish her shithole; she saved up to buy an occidental futon requisite for studios, a Persian carpet to cover the petrified wooden floors, wrapped canvases and framed posters to cover the dents and scratches and stab marks in the walls, a fancy retro microwave to ensure the food she attempted to cook in the ancient oven was fully cooked, and a slew of rocks and crystals and incense, she bought from one of the hundred new age stores in the city, to place at the openings of both her doors and one window to protect her from the evil spirits and vengeful ghosts that had to have been dwelling in her murder prone tenement. It was still a shithole, but it was her shithole, and after proper furnishing, it actually resembled the bedroom of one of the two million dollar Victorian houses that every person coming to SF dreamed of living in.


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Pretty Words for Ugly Thoughts

I'm the red-faced conductor of a mangled train of thought.

23 thoughts on “I Can’t Finish Anything”

  1. The first two sentences echo me perfectly. I even bought a book yesterday (Putting the science in fiction) to HELP me figure out what’s wrong with my novel. Ah well. Looks like I’m not the only one struggling. And just with that thought, I don’t feel so alone.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Thanks for the support. I guess the struggle is universal, so I have no right to whine.
      Maybe I’ll get that book. I have Campbell’s The Hero With a Thousand Faces, but I haven’t read it yet. I know it would probably help me with structure. Yea, maybe I’ll just read more :),
      I hope you finish your novel, and share it with the world.

      Liked by 1 person

      1. I sometimes find just the very act of reading a ‘writing’ book help inspires me. I might read a bit today as well and see if that helps! Good luck and sending you positive vibes from the New England! (And thanks! I hope I finish my novel soon too!)

        Liked by 1 person

  2. Eevee hated her apartment, but so, too, she loved it. It had, over the past months, become her (relatively) safe haven amongst the shit-storm that always was her life. It might not be much to look at, but it was hers, damn it, and that made her feel at least somewhat proud.

    Work was a bitch, but she busted her ass every fucking day to pay rent and buy bus tickets and food. The real drain happened four months ago when Devin dropped into her world. Literally, dropped. He had stumbled onto the 27 late that night, clearly not entirely sober yet somehow still looking hot as hell. He held the bar right in front of Eevee’s seat and swayed a bit more than the bus did. She glanced at him from the corner of her eye periodically, as one does in this part of town. Damn, he was sexy though. She pulled her arms in tighter and bit her lip. A sudden stop and *whump* there he was sprawled across her, his arms and legs awkwardly flopping about like a beetle on its back. “…the fuck?!” His reaction was delayed and they both fought to get him up and off.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. This! This is why I secretly laugh when you tell me I’m a better writer. It’s obvious you’re fucking amazing. You have the skills to publish and publish and publish. Such perfect structure and conveying of feelings. It’s truly amazing. As always, I’m envious and stunned by your writing skills. I just want to write a bunch of shit and send it to you to do it justice. You’re amazing. I’m happy to be back just because I get to talk to you :).

      Liked by 1 person

      1. Hahah! You genuinely make me laugh, B. I thought you wanted a continuation so that you could continue on with it… it was YOUR words that started my mind going. YOU could be published. Every. Single. Thing you write is fucking brilliant. I would buy twenty books from you. You just need… to set your mind to finishing a story. Or twelve. Finish one first. What happened to Johnny?? I actually re-read what I posted and was ashamed I hit the reply button. It’s sophomoric compared to you.

        Liked by 1 person

      2. You did exactly what I wanted! I wanted to hear others, yours in particular, so thank you very much.
        Stop saying nice things. I don’t take nice things well :).
        I really do want to send you a bunch of words and have you recreate something much prettier. You know how to properly write, I don’t. Thank you though for the encouragement 🙂

        Liked by 1 person

    2. I read this again. I love it even more :).
      I’ve literally “held the bar right in front of (a business man) and swayed a bit more than the bus did” haha. Drunken bus rides are the best. Tricky when tipsy and standing up, but fun as hell.

      I don’t take the bus much, it often smells like piss and taco vomit, but when I do, something interesting always happens.
      The two train stations in SF are currently under construction so you have to take the bus to the train station in South San Francisco, and it’s always packed past max occupancy, in my opinion. The last time I had to take it, I was smashed in between two business men who definitely drive Teslas and only drink Voss water, when this dude in front of me, that had some type of mental issue, pulled out a hand made pipe that my twelve year old first day smoking self could’ve constructed with my eyes closed. After packing the pipe, the business man looks at him and said “NO, you cannot do that in here”, and the dude with the pipe looked at him dead serious and used the genius response of, “My prescription says I can smoke anywhere one time a day, in case of emergency,” then ripped it and blew the smoke into a large, empty plastic bag. I fucking cracked up. It was one of the funniest things I’ve ever seen, though it doesn’t sound too funny after typing it out haha.


      1. Well, golly gee… 🤓

        One day…. I realize that when I write smut, I always finish those stories because otherwise it’s like fucking without an orgasm in the end. And smut demands finishing. Everything else… not so much lol


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