Life Coach, Schmife Coach


Fascinating about the frailty of creativity. Fleeing nature thereof.

Why haven’t I written in this blog for 85 days?  (Never mind that the little calendar-archive-thingy might show otherwise; I have cheated by filling in the blank days once I got my groove back.)

BLINK.  It’s gone.

BLINK. Nope, it’s not back.

Work work work work work. Try, stress, strain, fight, battle, coax. Now, it’s back.

It’s like the straw and the camel.  Poor, poor beast of burden.

You can work for two years for a boss who conscientiously & deliberately keeps you out of any creative and production work.  You can spend all your time chasing money.  You can be tied up with a primary pursuit.  That can hurt your creative productive output.

But.

But.

But.

Then.

Here is what else can hurt your creative productive output.

The day I stopped writing I had a discussion with a Life Coach.

This person is supposedly a coach for actors and creative people.

This person destroyed my writing for almost three months.

This bullcrap Life Coach told me that my snarky, sarcastic commentary about the entertainment industry would “karmetically” come back to get me.  Sarcasm–that type of humor–was not my authentic true voice.  How did this person even know what my authentic true voice was?  This was our first conversation ever; the pronouncement was made ten minutes into the conversation; AND, the meeting was by phone!  Not even any body language to help the interpretation.

And here, all along, I thought I WAS speaking my truth.  Apparently, according to Life Smoach, I wasn’t really.  Life Poach said I needed to be more positive.  Life Roach said I should talk about the things I wanted to do.  Which sort of made sense at first.  Even though I have been finding my internal truth, my own voice, with my writing–I have been trying to speak my truth in my art–it is true I have not been able to speak the truth everywhere else I worked—I hobble my truth in the business world.  But, how free as a crow I am with my writing.

Life Gauche said I should never be in a job where I have to tell lies.  True dat. But, funnily enough, Life Douche wanted me to tell lies in my writing.  To be Nice.  Nicey Nice.  No sarcasm. Pleasant-Polite. Fascinating Fucking Theory.  About as fascinating as a squished child under a tank.

I tried to be positive instead of snarky.  I wrote about Magnolia, where I wanted to go with that character.  It was a serious study and I liked the article I wrote.  But, I didn’t publish it.  And for the next 85 days, I’ve struggled and struggled with what to write.  I didn’t generate anything new.

  • I tried to dig up old material.
  • Second guessed myself.
  • Looked at all my poetry and couldn’t decide which ones I liked, if any of them.
  • Worried what people would think about it.

    Worried what people would think aout me.

  • Worried what people would think about my work.
  • Worried that if I wrote snickety-snarkety comments about the new Paramount film that I would never-get-a-job-in-this-town-again.

Found myself muffling my voice once again. Truly blocked…that dreaded word for writers…by the Life Squash.

I think that for the present time sarcasm IS my truth.  I will write from my stomach.

Fuck the Strife Goat.

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