I’ve been doing so much writing lately you would think I’d be sick of it but I have always loved writing. My problem, at the moment, is that nothing I write is what I am trying to write. There is something inside that I want to say but I just can’t put my finger on it. This is my version of writer’s block. It usually results in lots of unfinished articles. This time was no exception.
I wrote about getting the set top box from the ratings company and I wrote about why people are abusive and I wrote about depression but the articles sit, unfinished, on my computer. I started articles on anger, unrequited love, raising children, aging, personality disorders and they are also sitting, unfinished, on my computer.
I did some rewrites of someone else’s website content and searched for information on writing for google advertising but the restless writing urge continues to nag at me. I wrote lists and updated my daughter’s resume but nothing helped.
Now I am writing this. I’m trying to figure out what it is I want to say by just writing an aimless entry to see if it comes to me as I write.
I read an article about good blog writing. The person said good bloggers don’t lecture or preach and I winced. I lecture and preach don’t I? I get up on my soapbox and write AT the reader instead of to them.
I have two kinds of writing modes. Creative and conscious. Pretty much everything I have written so far has been conscious writing. The information is in my head and all I need to do is write it down in the right order, give it a lick and a polish, then publish it.
The other writing mode is almost painful for me. It’s like laying a literary egg. I get restless and I can’t stay away from the keyboard or a pen and paper until whatever it is finally finds its way out of me.
It used to happen all the time before I went to university. I guess I learned how to write, how to say what I wanted to say, so it was no longer a struggle to get the ideas onto paper after that.
Now it only happens when the idea itself is too deeply buried in my subconscious for me to get to it.
I used to deal with this creative restlessness by writing poems and short stories once but I rarely do that any more. There are too many other things to write about now. More important things.
Or maybe not.
Ahh. Here it comes. My little brown literary egg.
I feel my body weaken as age comes creeping
Back’s hurting and my hearing is weakening
As my body crumbles I turn from it and see
The incredible strength deep inside of me
There is no time for the whinge or the whine
Won’t be here much longer, make today mine
What do I care if he is not there, the bum
If she talks about me or they say I’m dumb
No time left for anger, grudges, being used
Been there, done that, hey I’ve paid my dues
Walk with me, beside me, or just walk away
No patience for power games, no, not today
Growing older, wiser, it’s true what they said
You’re born, you live, you die, you’re dead
Nothing really matters except what’s in me
Make that good, put that right, and I am free
Can’t be anything better than the best I can be
I feel much better now. It’s just a little egg and nothing special I suppose but I feel better. Should be able to get to sleep now. I can go back to all the other articles and finish them later. Might have to rework this once I have caught up on some other stuff as it is only rough. Sometimes my literary eggs do hatch and turn into something bigger and better. Have to wait and see if this little one does.
Wonder why this didn’t come when I was trying to write the article on aging?