You’ve not published for over a week says my Facebook, like a parent whose child’s bedroom is overdue for a dust. It’ll only get worse, are the words that remain unsaid. Soon you’ll be stagnant, stopped, like dust accumulated on a shelf.
Well give me some dust, please, although I’d struggle to even write my own name in it. The drafts bin is full of nonsense. I’ve got empty posts stacking up, the text having been deleted, annihilated in a matter of key strokes. No proof reading, no attempts to improve, just myself, frustrated and unwilling to read back over the awkward paragraphs and stilted ideas. My journals are scrawled with thoughts, key words, and notes, all littered with poor spelling and questionable grammar.
And why, what’s the hold up? No tales to narrate? No words of wisdom or observations to impart?
No, not a thing, just a series of excuses. Cue foot stamping, paper balling and pencil breaking. Or just cue a list, a range of lamentable reasons, some worthy, some not, of why I’ve written for hours and deleted in seconds:
- Number one and two are of a serious note: I want to get to the heart of a topic that I’ve taken to heart and to talk seriously of things that matter. There is skill in such things and a need to know your own mind, neither of which are either present or forthcoming. What’s more…
- ..I want to share an opinion, not a sermon. I think more people, myself included, should change. I want people to be kinder to themselves, to each other and to the World; I can’t figure out how to write that without sounding preachy rather than persuasive.
- On a different note, I’ve not been feeling myself. Writing doesn’t get me through dips, it helps me process them when I’m on the up. So hopefully I’ll be on the way up soon, just by other modes of transport than pen and ink.
- On a pathetic note, it’s January, it’s cold and it’s grey. Albert Camus said, “In the midst of winter, I found there was, within me, an invincible summer.” Maybe I’ve not dug deep enough, but right now all I’m hitting is solid ice.
- And on a cliched note, I’d rather write nothing than write something for the sake of it. Of course with that logic, I should delete this post and wait for inspiration. I should, but I’ll probably hit publish anyway and claim it’s charming and ironic.
Yeah, when times get tough let’s post about not posting, let’s writing about not writing. Let’s try and ignore the bite in the air and the brittleness of our moods, the shame that should come from using words to lament writer’s block or the cliche that is bemoaning January, the poor, oft-criticised month.
Yes, I think I’ll hit publish, keep the nagging at bay. It’ll be the quick dust of a room, clean enough to the naked eye, but dirt still apparent to the more observant eye.