No2

💩 I Am Not a Writer
(…and other polished turds from the editing trenches)

I am not a writer.
(somewhere, someone just whispered, “No sh*t.”)

Or maybe – I’m not an author.
Does this mess count as published work?
Is that a literary device or just a grammatical accident?
See what I mean?

Look – I know my ideas and writing are messy.
My ideas rarely arrive in neatly punctuated form.
They’re more like emotional compost: steaming, incoherent, and weirdly fertile.
But here you are. Still reading. So… thank you.

My Process:

Pre-Flush🚽 The Glorious Morning Dump of Creativity

Most mornings I wake up early, shuffle my way to the computer and just… let it flow.

Sometimes there’s music in my ears.
Sometimes it’s silent.
But the ideas come fairly regularly, thank goodness! 

They stream through whatever my mind process is – unfiltered, unstructured, healthy and free.
My fingers move. Words appear. Time dissolves. It’s a wonderful feeling to have it all empty out.  

I’ll admit it – I look to see what I produced and often I think “Wow, that came from me?   Maybe I really am a channel of insight. A creative force. A philosopher of the digital age.”  Did I mention I am still half dreaming?

Then, a few hours later, afternoon hits. I call that my:

Flush Zone 🧻 My Editing Hell  

The morning’s symphony becomes an editing sewer.
Now I’m hunched and pushing, grumbling, stuck in my seat, elbow-deep in mental sewage.
My thoughts smell like self-doubt and my motivation slides out of reach like a rogue wet wipe.

Things fall apart.
I snack unnecessarily.
I check emails I don’t need.
I even consider cleaning the garage, just to escape this screen.

From the outside I may look exactly the same as I did in the morning:
Same keyboard.
Same clicking.
Same guy.
But inside..?

So, morning = flow.
Afternoon = full body creative constipation.

And noticing that contrast – that’s my practice. 
If I can lift my head just long enough to smell the irony, I can see it’s my mind process happening in real time.

“Oh look… I’m in the shit again. Hello, old friend.”

And this is where things actually start to stink less.
Because when I can recognize the sh*t for what it is – just thoughts, just mental resistance to an otherwise simple activity, just a process of measuring happening between my ears – and something changes.

I realize:

💩 This discomfort is my fertilizer.
💩 This grind is opportinity for growth.
💩 This turd is truth composted into wisdom.

Abd that’s when I can smile (slightly), shift on my thrown, and I keep going.

The Nugget of All This 

I won’t pretend I love editing. It still sucks. It still stinks. It still feels like trying to pass something bulky and unprocessed.

But every time I can catch myself – mid-grumble, mid-scroll, mid-snack – and say: “Ah… this is what I’m resisting. This is what I’m sitting in.”

That’s a win.
That’s presence.
That’s me, right there, growing through the self-imposed fertilizer.

The Final Wipe 🧻 

I’ve become grateful for the sh*t.
Not because I enjoy it and not because it smells nice.
But because every stinking moment I can recognize as my own sh*t becomes an opportunity for growth.
And if I can write even a halfway-coherent piece from inside that toilet bowl of a mess, then maybe (just maybe) this really is the best piece of sh*t I’ve ever written.