rough & very unfinished first draft but i missed blogging bad

 this is the beginning of a short story i recently started writing. it has barely begun, and i have yet to revise or edit it, so dont judge too hard. also idek if im going to stick with this idea, i think its fun but idk if it will pan out the way i want it to. this part doesnt reveal much about the plot im ngl but i swear its more than just ramblings about nothing i have a plan for it. im so bad at keeping tenses consistent so just ignore that. n y way heres what i have so far pls be nice. 

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    There isn’t much else to do but write. 

    I ripped open a pack of instant ramen and spooned instant coffee into yesterday's dirty mug. The kettle murmured a soft cry for help, its extreme overuse leaving it unable to come to a full boil, just a subtle rumble when it was warm enough. Over six hundred pages of writing have come together to form the most disjointed, unreadable slop of a novel, if one could even call it that. The noodles began to separate in the plastic bowl, which was clearly not designed to withstand this heat. Half of the novel is notes, marginal corrections for my later self, beginnings of plot lines that have never been revisited. 
    Everyone said the first draft was the most difficult, but where am I now? No agent or editor wants to touch the beast I created; no one sees the statue within the stone. If there even is one. I went into the writing process with full faith in an idea, in a set of characters with complex motivations and strong personalities, and a full outline. All I needed to do was fill in the blanks. But now I’m here, 600 pages and eight months later, with nothing. Nothing of substance, anyway. I scooped three heaping spoons of brown sugar into the clumpy, unmixed instant coffee. Its the only thing that makes it tolerable. 
    Living alone is the only reason I can survive like this. Dedicating the living room to a workspace, no television, no coffee table, just a standing lamp in the corner that barely lights the room when the sun goes down, and hundreds of papers and sticky notes taped to the wall, and a few small furniture pieces only to write with slightly more ease. Tape is a strong word for what litters my walls, though; some drafts are stuck in place by band-aids, fruit stickers, price tags, chewed gum. Whatever is nearest during a moment of inspiration. The walls are covered in windows, leaving any passerby to see the wreck that I live in, the dirty mugs that litter the floor, the papers strewn across the floor like a rug, dirty shoe prints covering paragraphs I’ve now abandoned. Its the only way I can see my story, scrolling through a document isn’t enough for me. I need to see the story in front of me and rearrange the paragraphs until they are perfectly aligned. But what good has that gotten me so far? 600 pages of bullshit, but bullshit I arranged so meticulously. 
    There’s a smattering of ivy threatening to enter the window. Once just climbing the siding of my small home, it now crept towards the edges of the glass, like a vignette on a romantic painting. It helps to focus the light, though, directing it towards the wall that needs it the most. My landlord keeps requesting I cut it down, don’t let it take over too much of the house, or else it’ll become a bigger issue later, but I haven’t found the time yet. For now, it will keep the light focused. 
    The ramen is cold by now, noodles barely separated from each other due to the now lukewarm water. I empty the seasoning packet into the bowl anyway, shaking out every last bit— the only thing that makes it tolerable to eat in this state. I take the bowl into the living room and drop myself onto a tall wooden stool, the only seating I’ve allowed myself in the workroom. The ramen would be better if I nuked it, but the microwave has been broken for nearly three weeks now. Maybe I’ll get around to it when I cut the ivy. I have other priorities now. To start, my beginning. 
    My writing is full of pretentious prose riddled with half-thought-out metaphors and language so floral it’d make a bumblebee gag, cliches with no twist, and uninspired ideas, despite my insistence that they are thrilling: reading my own work makes me disgusted nowadays. I’m tired of my own words, yet I keep spitting them out and forcing them together. I feel like an angsty, teenage Samuel Beckett, but without the follow-through, without the confidence that makes his work work. I slurp my ramen with dismay, hatefully flittering my eyes across the disjointed storyboard. The printer that lives on a small end table spat out fifteen pages last night, but I retreated to my bed before I could remember to attach them to the wall. Putting down the bowl and taking a swig of sickeningly sweet coffee, I flip through the pages, which I thought would be my final pages before the editing process. I always think that way when I'm high, I can see the light at the end of the tunnel, I can picture my project completed. But sober, rested me sees nothing but stoned ramblings, run-on sentences, observations so simple yet so dramatized that I begin to wonder if the weed actually works.
    I'm exhausted just looking at what’s on my wall. I take the red sharpie from my back pocket and begin flipping through the new pages, crossing out any absurd ramblings and circling anything with potential. I need to quit the writing stage, focus only on structure, revision, and editing, but reading my own work is a battle in itself. I stand, viewing my wall as a whole. There’s something here, though, something that's resisting my constant urge to quit this project, start over completely, wipe the slate clean. 
                        ——
    Hours of revising passed, and I found myself, once again, on my laptop, writing more. I should be whittling down what I have, killing all my darlings, but I can’t help but add more, force thousands of needles into this haystack. The room is darker now, the mid-afternoon sun beginning to lower behind the trees. I press print on the six pages I wrote, and hear my old printer gurgle in response. Three pages print before an error message pops up on the screen.
    ERROR: REFILL PAPER TRAY, the screen reads, accompanied by a long beep. I stood up, opened the tray, and saw nothing but one half-crumpled piece of paper. Maybe this was a sign I shouldn’t be writing anymore. I need to stick with the pages I already have. Quit the creative process and begin the critical process. I checked the time, 6:40. The office supply store would be open for another hour or so. Fuck it, I said to myself. I’d rather write anyway.
    I placed my laptop on the floor, grabbed my wallet, keys, lighter, and cigarettes, and started off to the store. Lighting one up, I notice the ivy from the outside for the first time in a week. The yellow siding was barely visible anymore, masked by layers of vibrant green vines and five-pronged leaves that yellowed around the edges. It had overtaken the chimney, which I hadn’t noticed until now. How many days had it been since I actually looked at my home? How many days had it been since I went outside for anything but a smoke break? I plucked a leaf off and made a mental note to buy shears the next time I was at the hardware store.