I have been coming up empty. Drained or strained- unable to write anything that I feel is of much interest to me. In the year that I have been maintaining this blog I have not run up against this quagmire. Ideas for blog posts flooded my mental capacities and I could not keep my fingers away from the key board. But now I have grown uninterested and discontent. I’d rather meditate than write and I am more entertained watching my birds than I am creating blog posts. I wonder if I am growing tired of the self deprecating, victimized revelations that I indulge in my writings. There have been times that I feel as if I am revealing too much and should maybe with hold some personal information from the blogosphere. But the more dominant half of me has always believed that good writing is about honesty and if I am incapable of being honest in my writing, why write?
So I have abstained from writing. I have created a few short stories that lack the ardor, tenacity and wit that I would like to cultivate in my prose- but they are tolerable. Maybe I have grown bored with the tales of terror, anxiety, perversion, marital woe, sexual frustration and absurdity that I have spent the past year religiously telling or maybe I just need a break. Ideas for stories to write are still often coming into my head, as if a hand of some ethereal muse refuses to let me alone, but the moment I transform the idea into prose I grow bored before I have even gotten past the first paragraph. I spell word after word wrong and can not find the words to describe a thought. I often wonder if this blog is simply a ridiculous waste of my time but then I am reminded of how much I enjoy certain comments when they come maybe once a week. Or is this a lie I tell myself to manipulate my way around the task of writing the novel I have dreamed of creating ever since I came out of my fathers womb (this is another story I still have to tell). Even now as I write this blog entry I want to delete it. This is a ridiculous rant of a jaded mind that has become frozen in it’s own lack of spontaneity. Whatever the case may be- I believe that I may be suffering from my first case of blogger’s block.
A writing teacher of mine told me the other day to just keep writing. “Even if what you have to say is crap, put it up on your blog for all the world to see. You are writing for you and nothing more, so what have you got to hide?” What my writing teacher does not realize is that I am not writing just for me. I failed to admit to him that I am writing for fame, immortality, financial security and the privilege of accepting literary awards that will free me from my day job and afford me the title “novelist” when I have to tell people what I do. It is a grand dream that may never be attained, but deep down I feel as if this absurd digital diary is a small step along the blistering way. And after all, it is the journey and not the destination, that matters most, right? So I’ll keep writing, or at least I will try to keep writing- and maybe way out there, somewhere- one person will keep on reading.