This is part of a series of ongoing OCD episodes, which I will post as they happen. This is live, stream of consciousness. It happens. Often. Sometimes the subjects are different.

Nothing. That word right there, starting this piece with it. So trite. “Nothing?” That simple? That is all I have. I can’t even write about not being able to write. I’ve promised my readers an article every two days, then I made it three. As long as I have a rule, and follow it, all is ok and I will be ok and respected or liked or whatever the hell I want from this.

I know the formation of all the words I wish to feel in my destination in writing, but… I’m just not… able to walk there. And if I miss a day, I know I can always move my calendar dates up. My spreadsheet can calculate for missed days… but it still—like I (wrongfully) know my readers—expect(s) an article every three days.

Writer’s block is so ironically cliché. It leads you to write in cliché. I don’t generally do that. If I find myself writing a cliché, I try to reform the concept in my own words.

I have OCD. Writer’s block is a real thing and is yet another thing that exists within one hellish level for some, but multiple hellish layers for me. The obvious being I know I have ideas that I need to get down on paper, but I just can form the words. That’s level one. The second is organization and promises and a site going stale. Oh, and eventualities. Even though I’ve written over 100,000 words in nine months, I know I could stop at any time. And I fear that.

I stopped painting. I don’t know why. I plan on picking that up again, I am very good at it. I stopped doing music, that one… the level of my soul I needed to pour into it clashed with, well, my need to make money and start businesses.

Now I am here. I have found a way to write on a near-daily basis. Have I written every word about the subject matter which Yeah OCD covers?

This is my Pure Obsessional OCD. I do not have compulsions to not step on cracks in the sidewalk and the like. I have obsessions with things like absolutely needing to post an article every three days. Four days between articles feel as shitty as if I left this blog for a year (which would then turn into ten years before I could rescue the spark.)

Well, I am writing now. Right? Not very well. I feel these raw OCD Episode articles are blow-offs. Though they are not. They are what I am feeling at the moment, and may be important that the ones I edit heavily to attempt to get my point across through complex allegory or whatever devices I may be using.

I just microwaved my coffee (decaf, anxiety issues) for one minute fourteen seconds exactly. I did that for a reason. That reason tracks back to my OCD. I should be writing about that. Well, I am… but not fully. I will move on to the next paragraph here and forget about that whole thing because that is allowed in these types of articles.

And here I am, empty again. No, not empty. Pent-up. The creativity is there, but it is trapped. That is the worst part. If I were not a creative person, I would feel about this blog, my paintings, photography, and other endeavors the same way I would feel about working on a car. Working on a car isn’t me, not my thing, I don’t feel any need to ever do so.

So there, I wrote about not being able to write. This is the result. This barely explains what writer’s block is like for someone with OCD who is a writer. Because I have writer’s block. Yet, does this circularity actually explain it well enough?

You know what, I don’t friggin know… all I know is if I don’t at least reach seven-hundred words, I don’t feel this is complete. Twenty-eight to go to hit that.

Writer’s block is not about starting at a blank sheet of paper and not knowing what to write. No, it is about these strong ideas bubbling inside your head, but trapped within something that does not let them utilize the parts of your brain that forms them into something others can appreciate.

This is all so obvious. This piece isn’t creative. It is here to fill a spot in green in a spreadsheet. It is shit. It is all shit. Except for the ideas. That I can’t seem to get to you.