I’ve been in a rut lately – can’t seem to write a thing. When I do, it seems like my computer decides this is a bad idea and shits itself. So, I’m in the market for a new laptop.
This post isn’t about laptops or ruts. Maybe the later, I’m not sure yet; kinda taking this in stride and going along for the ride. I assume, on WordPress, that most of us are writers (holy shit, is that the first time I ever directly acknowledged an audience?) I figure, us being writers and all, that we know the pratfalls and shortcomings that come with having a handle over the language – some modicum at least, nothing at all – who knows. Self-awareness ain’t really my strong suit, I’ve learned.
At 30, writing diligently for the past, I don’t know, 24 years or so, I’ve learned to learn a thing or two. Revisiting the rut, I don’t mind it. I do well with challenges placed before me. OK, ok, Let me rephrase that. I flip my SHIT when challenges are placed before me, but I have the tendency to never back away from them, instead staring them in the eye and making sure they acknowledge me as I do them. There’s some kind of morbid mutual respect going on between my challenges and me. Whether it be depression, writer’s block, interpersonal relationships, or what-have-yous. Having things go my way has never really been a thing, except in short spurts – and I don’t mind it, no complaints on that front; that’s life.
About six months ago I was writing with fury, pumping out fiction left and right (if you follow this blog, I prefer fiction to all else. Whether or not it’s any good is up for debate.) These days, what with the 9-5 and all, I barely get any good writing done. Instead, I’ve kind of sold it out for a marketing firm and write advertisement copy for a slew of companies. It’s not really my cup of tea, to be honest, but it helps pay the bills and for that, I’m eternally grateful. Be that as it may, I feel myself slipping with my writing. I feel it changing. A sharp pivot towards marketing copy when all I’ve ever really been good at is expressing myself. Fortunately for me, I’ve been told that my worldview is so crazy that it’s worth listening to. I don’t know. In that way, I feel I’ve sewn my fingers together and my mouth shut.
Like everybody else on the planet, I experience brilliantly. Vibrant colors, soothing noises, effective and provocative emotions. I try to write ’em all down as they come. That’s the fun – and that’s a challenge, too.
Since I was a teen, I knew I’d be writing my entire life. It came so naturally to me, words pumping from my mind, through my hands, and onto a blank canvas so effortlessly that I knew it was something I’d keep up with. Sure, there are periods where I can’t be bothered to write a thing, though the thoughts never, ever stop. Frankly, there are worlds in my mind. So many I can’t imagine keeping track of them. Lives flow through my mind. Entire existences. A girl, aged 12, fighting for her life to escape capture in the rural south, getting ready to be sold off to human sex slavery. I never said they were all happy existences…
A rut. Can’t write anything but what I know – and that’s ok. Feeling my fingers dance to my own groove, not endorsing a business I may not agree with, or a company with morals contradictory to my own. It’s a dance I’ll forever want to enter the dance floor for. Fame will most probably never come my way, so now I write for my unborn kids.
You know what scares me to death? That my children will have depression like their old man. I don’t want to pass this down. But if I must, and if it happens, I have words. Words of encouragement. Words of growth. Scary words. Truthful words. Words of self-deprecation. Words of self-loathing. Words that pit me against the world. Words that pit a character against the world. Words, that despite all odds, kept pouring out. Sometimes in a panic. Sometimes in mania. These, I will give to my kids – maybe. We’ll see. The rut is silence, really, and maybe that’s what I’m really afraid of. To lose the words, the thoughts, the ideas, the worlds, the meaning. Right now, I’m noticeably talkative, but the words are self-reflective and meaningful only to me and, possibly, and handful of other people.
But no matter what I say. No matter how often I write. And no matter how it comes out. There’s a reason for it. Maybe it’s to avoid silence. Maybe, in that silence, there’s a profound truth that can only form through the words I use. Maybe it’s for my kids. Maybe it’s for nothing at all.
At least, my dear WordPress blog, I have you.
And if I could, I’d hug ya.
Oh man, I almost forgot! New laptop! Any suggestions? Leaning towards a PC…