The cool thing about writer's block is the completely lightning-strike way that you inevitably get shaken out of it.
I started this blog oh-so six-or-seven posts ago to lean on outside pressure to keep me writing, and more importantly, to keep me writing in ways that, well, didn't suck -- or were at least on a trend away from that-which-sucks. But it hasn't really worked. The first posts were, alas, really riffs on the few ideas that have stuck in my head in the decade or so since I last took writing seriously. I cranked them out, flashed a wry smile, and then found that everything I was writing -- and I have actually been writing quite a bit -- since my last post was falling flat. Attempts to opine led to no point. Introspection slid into self-importance. Even the humor seemed mean-spirited.
Sometimes writing flails because the mouse-trap mechanisms that connect mind to keyboard are all fubar. Sometimes writing flails because the keyboard is just faithfully tapping out the notions of a head that is all fubar. I think writer's block is the cheap way of blaming the writing skills for not having anything to say.
I have had nothing to say.
With all the historic events swirling around me, I have only reactions, not opinions. I feel like a brontosaurus looking up from a pleasant over-sized frond after hearing a massive boom, wincing at a brilliant flash, and then thinking wtf? as the last thought of my species. (And even there I pop an over-stated metaphor...)
When I take the step and admit the fact that I don't know what is next, that the world right now is too close, complex and concentrated to have any rational insights of any use...well, then I turn to my reactions and they are...limbic.
So tonight, I'm getting that there are times when getting through shit might mean that you don't try to put too many words around said shit.
So tonight, I am getting that my trash-bin writing sounds self-absorbed...because it is. And that is not a problem with my writing, it is a problem with the writer.
So tonight, I am learning that sometimes getting through things requires a little distance from those things until it is done. Real-time is not always necessary. Or good.
So tonight, I am thinking that I never really knew why my dad taught me to save for the rainy days, to put things aside for when life stumbles. I've never really stumbled. I've never felt a rainy day that was anything more metaphorical than wet.
So today, it rained.
And tonight, I finally admitted that it is the proverbial rainy day. And I am glad I listened to dad. Even if I never admitted it.
So tonight, I wrote.
Rejection (and the four paths)
15 hours ago