Current Mood: Quizzical
Current Music: L'almerique - Joe Dassin

CLEO's post about the 10 things Writers have learned about writing, gave me great consideration about my own long-term recent inability to even write a few lines of non-sensical gibberish. In most scrutinised speculation:

You have to do it first, at the earliest and innermost level, for yourself. Because if you aren't writing for your own pleasure, why the hell are you doing it?

Maybe, the reason I just can't 'write' ANYTHING anymore is because I just don't enjoy it. I make the time, I have the equipment...I just. CAN'T. It doesn't feel natural what I'm writing anymore, it just doesn't flow from me like it did before. Sure, before it was complete non-grammatical trash so to speak, but at least I loved it. At least everyday I gave it a go and was somewhat pleased with it. Now, I can barely come up with an idea let alone a character of some deeper inner conflict that doesn't seem cliche or stereotypical. I can't even write my magnum opus and considering my high egocentrism, you think that would be quite the simple task?

In my entire life, writing was the one thing I could depend on. My life was always on the fritz, I had everchanging friends, hates, loves etc. But my writing, ay, that was the rub. It was my something blue, I could always reach deep down inside of me and feel it, bubbling up. It was something to look forward to doing on cold rainy afternoons, snuggled in bed with a nice hot laptop on my lap and a MILO by my side while I typed feverishly away, lost to the worlds of my imagination and at complete peace. Now, I lie in bed and worry. I think, no, I KNOW I should be doing my work and so I do it or I sleep. But I don't have any extra energy to expend on writing, no motivation, no goal in it. And everytime I read something, to inspire or increase my lack of knowledgeabless about the world, it depresses me even more that I will never attain a level so high as those authors and their MAD writingz skillz.

I have books and books and notebooks and little books and skinny Morning Glory notebooks full of writing and ideas and stories. But I haven't come up with a new idea in a year now and I can feel myself dwindling away, like the writer in me is gone or is leaving. She's found a better person to inhabit or maybe she's died all ready, I don't know. But I'm terrified more than anything else that I'll loose her, this separate entity that I beleived was so entwined in my being. But I feel empty. She's not there. And I can't dredge up anything more to keep me going. I can only admire others from afar, hoping to copy them, feeling as if I'll ever live up to those standards. And it scares me, because, deep, deep down, beneath all these layers, I hope something else happens, I hope I don't become a lawyer, I hope I end up as a writer or in Hollywood or something exciting because I don't really want, I can't really believe that in 5-6 years time I'll be in an office, dreams completely deflated and working 90 hours a week for nothing really, with no real prospects, with no real dreams. And then I really know that the girl inside of me, that writer girl with all her dreams and beliefs will really be gone.

~

On a second note, my flair for the dramatic which is soooo evidenced by that post above just goes to prove that not all of her is gone. Ah, who can blame me? I'm just a sucker for a richly aesthetically pleasing drama-ridden conclusion. Love it.
Schnugged at 10:22 |