It’s ages since I wrote anything – not just anything of note, but anything. Such a relief. I can feel the grip slipping away from the old life I used to have as I stumble forwards into whatever it is I’m doing now.
I don’t really miss it, at all. Sometimes I feel like writing, but I can’t rouse the energy to do it, or find the time. There is always something else going on. Always something else to do. Or… perhaps there isn’t, and I just don’t want to write anymore. It could be that.
I can’t tell you when I fell out of love with writing but it was some time ago, when I felt the crushing inevitability of having to put my thoughts into characters on a screen rather than keep them whirring away in my mind. I was doing too much writing and not enough reading; I was not listening as much as I spoke, and I think that’s always likely to be a bad idea. Writing had turned from a joy and a release into a chore and a pain.
You get fatigued. Your writing becomes repetitive and stale. You can’t remember if you’ve used the simile in your mind before or whether you’re stealing from yourself, from something you wrote sometime before… when you were good. What can you do? Do you just keep writing through it, and not care? Do you give up? Do you look at where you’ve gone wrong?
I am too fragile for anything but the giving up. I am a tiny glass boat floating on a sea of ink. I don’t like writing unless it’s exactly what I want, when I want, about something that matters. How much did I ever write about nothing? What good did it ever do? What on earth was I trying to achieve, and did I achieve it? Could I ever have achieved it if I’d tried harder, or done better? I don’t even know. I just know that the words don’t arrive much now. They turn up but quickly take flight. And that leaves me feeling happier.
Write when you want to. Write what you want. Write, or don’t.