Writer’s Terror

I have been writing a lot (when I’m writing at all) about writer’s block on my blog lately.  Because it’s on my mind.

Lately I’ve been really good about accomplishing all of the tasks that I want to do on a daily or weekly basis.  Every day I read at least one poem and I read a book for at least half an hour, I write two longhand pages worth of a journal, I try to make conversation with a stranger, I get 30 points in Duolingo, I learn something new, I even floss.

But almost every day my “30 minutes of Writing” goes unchecked.  Because once again, I haven’t managed to find 30 minutes of my time to devote to doing what is supposedly one of my life forces.

It’s pathetic.

There is so much that I could write about.  So it’s not that I don’t have ideas.

Father’s Day is coming up again and somehow every new Father’s Day brings with it new revelations about what it means to not have a living father anymore.  I have already written the first paragraph in my head, but it hasn’t edged any closer to either screen or paper.

I’ve written two thirds of what I think could be a really great children’s story, although it probably is not the picture book that I originally envisioned.  I wrote the first section more than a month ago.  The second section earlier this week.  Who knows when the third section will be written?  Hopefully sooner than the month that it took last time.

I’ve wanted to start a blog (I think I actually did create it several months ago, but I forgot my login credentials) in which I review different things like plays, movies, books, restaurants, etc.  But…I just don’t.  There are so many people already saying what they think on the internet, that it is sometimes difficult for me to see the need to add one more shout to an already overwhelming horde.

A friend of mine and I recently made a bunch of Fireball recipes.  I had mentioned that I might write a blog about the things we made.  I didn’t.  She finished hers in less than 24 hours.

So it isn’t writer’s block.

I have plenty to say.

Instead, it seems to be part fear and part exhaustion that keeps me from writing seriously.

In the last year I have slowly returned to my childhood dream of being a writer, but I’ve lost the focus of childhood. I have ideas, but I don’t know what I want to write.

When I was young, stories flowed like rapids through my being.  It was easy to write because I was so full of things to say and stories to tell that they fell out of me in games I played with my siblings and in stories I told to my cousins when we were supposed to be sleeping and, when I didn’t have people around me, they were scrawled into composition notebooks and what were supposed to be journals.

My ideas are still there, but they are not longer torrential.  They drip like spent raindrops off the corners of homes after the storm has passed.  They accumulate quietly and unobtrusively like an underground reservoir that doesn’t expect to be utilized.

The energy is gone and I am left terrified of disturbing the pacific nature of the pool containing my inspiration. What I should probably do is dive in, swim hard, and see how deep the water goes.

At least today I can say that I dipped a toe in.

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