FUNK!
Even the most prolific of writers go through the occasional dry spell. Not to mention, those of us who also qualify as "verbose" sometimes won't even pen a thought, for fear of where it might lead (and for fear that we'll never find a way to make it end).
In other words: I've not had much to say lately. Or, at least, too much to say and not the foggiest idea how to begin. I watched Brokeback Mountain which I'll review someday soon... I think. I went on my lengthiest bike ride thus far this season (35 miles), and made the trek with a friend who recently moved back to town. Most others were inacessible the past few days, and I spent much of the resultant free time going on longer jogs and letting my mind wander out over the lake.
I wonder if I might be suffering from a "healthy" breed of writer's block... the sort that demands complicated emotions be summed up in 17 syllables, or not communicated at all. The sort that disallows the rants and diatribes once so inexorably woven into my past writing habits. The sort that brings a senseless tangent to a close before it ever has occasion to begin.
I'll be the first to admit that I'm not the most optimistic of people. But my cynicism is generally colored by a degree of humor. I'm acerbic, but otherwise playful — especially offline. But when I'm given the opportunity to channel my thoughts directly from my mind to the computer screen... terrible things can happen. The pessimist is likely to slip out with nary a joke (or silly haiku). So when I feel that old creature coming on, I type less. Once upon a time, these were the days where I wrote the most. I have volumes of terrible poetry and melodramatic prose to prove it.
Funny how things change. Funny how you can grow tired of hearing yourself complain. Tired of writing about that great unknown, crushed life ambitions, etc. And so, even as "new" life situations arise, there's something quintessentially cliche about the core of every experience.
Fatigue. Confusion. Disenchantment. Please. Not only have I been writing about these things since my preteens, but I've also grown enough to accept that we own the cause of these emotions. In other words: why dwell when you can counteract?
And so I say again: I've been spending these days going on longer jogs. And letting my mind wander out over the lake.
My hope now is that I'll find some way to rope in my thoughts; to line them up like aluminum cans resting a top fence posts... and then fire away.
Labels:
brain chew,
diatribes,
nevillian adventures
7 comments:
Look at it this way...
Obesity is an epidemic in this country.
If we could all get some writers block, perhaps we would be a more healthy nation... what with the jogging and all.
I'm usually my healthiest when I'm unemployed, but that's a whole other matter.
It sounds like you have come to some conclusions about your (for lack of a better word) periods of Weltschmerz. Going for long jogs and looking out over the lake gives you something beautiful to inspire you, endorphins to make you feel better and time to line up your thoughts.
I have only recently discovered that pro forma complaining is an endless cycle that just makes things worse.
Good luck getting over the block. 35 miles? Cool. I am stuck at 38 for a long one.
~BPP
Blast! Foiled by three lousy miles, once again!
*laughs* No worries. You make 39 next time. The whole point is to keep going farther. Wait, no. The whole point is to enjoy it. :)
~BPP
I think a lot of people go through this.. sometimes I really just don't have anything to say/write. I find it almost comforting.
I enjoyed reading your posts. Your writing is very engaging. But are you a jogging addict? Remember Forrest Gump...?
I really don't see this as a problem. I suppose it is to a writer, but I know what you mean about being weary of your own complaints. It's not as though silence is resignation. It's simply that you are more experienced and your thoughts deeper than the adolescent diatribes you feel you have voiced since the tween years. With increasing frequency, I find there is something incredibly satsifying about silent reflection and a knowing smile.
As a scholar of the written word, I imagine I'm expected to think it beautiful, and sometimes I do. But perhaps I've finally come into the postmodern era enough to suspect the premise that there is a natural link between signifier and signified. Or in plainer language, I don't trust words, written or spoken, to convey the nuance and complexity of my thoughts. And when I attempt against my inclination to translate them into that media, I generally feel they are degraded. I produce vitriolic blather like I have produced for decades, and I wish I had remained silent. Then I get energized; I speak and write more and more, trying to refine the sentiment and get at what I want to communicate, but...
It is a wonderful thing to commune with a lake.
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