Nothing Good
Nothing good happens inside my head. I tear my friends and loved ones down to distance them from myself, I rip myself to shreds, and I make plans that have no chance of working out so I can rake myself over the coals later for not following through on them.
Decent things happen here, on formerly blank pages and screens. Contrary to the recommended wisdom, I’ve actually enjoyed stories I’ve written. I think that if you write often, you see the flaws in past works. If you write sporadically, you see something finished and have the odd feeling of being envious of yourself.
I’ve been trying to formulate a plan to come back here for a while. I’ve been trying to figure out what to write. Not just on this blog, but in general. What do I want to write? When will I write? How will I write?
Other people fantasize about writing The Great American Novel. I’m just after The Great American Life Regiment, where everything is safely in its place on the clock, and I Do It All, including write. But it turns out that there is no brilliance rattling around up here in my head. I don’t have enough knowledge, experience, or intuition to formulate a plan, let alone the plan.
But some things have made their way out on here, in this space, that I do like. Things I couldn’t have planned. Things that got their genesis in a writing prompt, or a stray idea, or the commitment to fifteen minutes a day of writing and the driving motivation of “Fuck, I have to put SOMETHING here.”
I don’t know if I want to write, what I want to write, when I want to write, or how I want to write. But I think there’s something to be found here, even if it’s the end of a story rather than the beginning of one. If I ended a post with “And now I know, writing is not for me,” and I felt confident in those words, I’d be happy.
Until then, I’m going to try and figure some stuff out here.
