I have a secret blog.

Typing that sentence made me feel a weird sense of shame, like when I was a kid and nobody would admit they masturbated, and even though I did and knew that everybody else did, too, I just stayed quiet and felt squirmy about it whenever the subject came up.

My secret blog stays secret, because it's basically a tool I use to get my creativity on the move. When I am stumped for words, I go there and type stream-of-consciousness style until I feel I'm done, and then, voila, my brain is working again.

I have three rules that I stick to when I write there:

  1. I have to write continuously, although I am allowed to pause to correct spelling errors.
  2. No paragraph breaks are allowed, because once I start organizing the text, I think too much.
  3. The text is not open to judgment while the writing of it is taking place.

What I end up writing usually looks something akin to this:

So, here I am again, trying to free up some brain space again and thinking of fish for some reason. I am thinking about those giant angel fish or whatever that are five hundred pounds and get caught in fishermen's nets and need a crane to pull them out of the water. I was wondering what their meat tastes like and if they're even edible. I bet they smell atrocious. My shirt is not warm at all in the least and I'm freezing my nips off. If my nips hit the floor, would they make a sound? Likely not, as the floor is carpeted. I hate carpets. They are filth collectors. If I laid a pair of jeans on the floor in my hallway and walked on them for a year and spilled stuff on them, do you think I would want to lie on them after that, even if I vacuumed them? No. They would be disgusting, and I would throw them out. Here, bring your baby over and put it on my filth collector. It's not asthma! It's fungus lung! When I was a kid back in the early eighties, I used to lie face down on the shaggy, white carpet in my bedroom and breathe in the synthetic smell of it. It tickled my throat and smelled vaguely chemical or plastic. It was rough against my face and gave a nasty burn if you fell on it. It was some kind of subtle self-torture that I would exact against myself, because I had a very difficult time with feeling removed from the world, like it was not entirely real. Then, as now, I felt like I was on the other side of a glass wall, that I could not see colours or shapes or hear sounds as they truly were. I wanted to really touch the world and feel that I was in it. So, that rough carpet burning into my nose and its awful smell that made me cough helped me to be in the physical now, even if only for a few minutes.

As you may have noticed, I streamed from big fish to my nipples to childhood masochism. Holy uncomfortable. This is often how it goes. I'll start out fluffy and nowhere in particular and end up feeling like I've gotten a little too intimate with myself: Uhm, yeah, it was really nice to hang out with you, but I'm not really ready for a relationship right now. It's a creative exercise and therapy, all in one!

So, me and my secret blog are scary scary, but this is how the writing gets done, even if it feels a little like masturbating in the closet.

I'm curious about what triggers your creativity. Let me know in the comments if you've got an activity or a place that you go or somesuch that gives you forward momentum.

Ooh, that reminds me. In my mid-twenties, I was convinced that standing on my head helped, and my roommates regularly found me head down and feet tossed up against the wall contemplating life. No wonder they avoided one-on-one contact with me. Although, I did convince one of them to give it a try when he was depressed one day.

How does that feel? I asked him after helping to lean him upside down against the wall.

Pretty ridiculous, he said.

Of course it does. It's supposed to help change your perspective.

I feel stupid, actually.

Well, that's a change. You were feeling depressed, and now you're feeling stupid. See? It works.

Fuck, I was annoying.