I’ve spent 15 years writing and rewriting the beginning of this story; enamored with the bits and pieces one moment and frustrated with the stunted growth of each idea. I’m 29 words into this aimless snippet, and I’m already frustrated and bored. My exuberance was wasted early on critiquing and sharing thoughts with a dozen unpublished writers on an anonymous web site and trading rhymes with street poets. World is done. World is done, done, done…
This is it then? It’s over? Words are useless? Writers deal in scribbles and pauses and runs like an NBA team on fire. They also rake their souls over coals of self-condemnation when those same words aren’t forthcoming or don’t make sense or have no depth.
That’s a bit melodramatic, don’t you think? Writers writing about writers writing about writing?
You brought it up. Uninspired writing comes from uninspired writers. That’s it. If anything, dude, you should do something else. Try painting, sculpting, landscaping, cooking, anything. Find something to enjoy and pass on the lit thing.
I teach lit. And writing. And ethics. And logic. And philosophy and religious studies. And personal finance. And I’ve got degrees in commercial art as well.
So? Is this all you’ve got in the pot to stir? Find your own way. Be your own best critic. It sounds as if you’re too critical of yourself.
Please. The only thing you’ve told me is to enjoy the stalemate.
No. Enjoy life before your goals suck the life out of you. Say goodbye to everything, and I mean everything, that does this. Walk away and love life again. Or at least tolerate it.
Yeah. We need a rest.
Hmmm… Some muse you are.