Today I'm experiencing a strange disconnect, a dissonance of drive between content and intention.
There is absolutely nothing about which I am inspired to write at present, yet I'm feeling the compulsion to do so. Put another way, I feel that I should be writing. I have that restlessness of spirit that normally accompanies hours at pen-point. I actively desire to compose text but I've no ideas that I deem worthy of paper.
It's an odd and frustrating feeling, a feeling that has now led me to break a cardinal rule of writing; don't write about being a writer.
It'll come to me. Such is the way of things.
1 comment:
You may not lay claim to being a writer but you are a writer...you always have been. Sometimes I like to think I had a hand in that, making you write an essay when you were naughty about what you had done/why you did it/why it was wrong/and what your punishment should be. Certainly made you organize your thoughts.
But what you are feeling right now, that restlessness and the "itchy fingers" is a form of grief. It may be from something momentous like coming so close to losing a friend of many years; it may be from something as trivial as the gray, gray weather of the past few days. But it's one of the greatest ways a writer experiences grief..that need to write and feeling like no thoughts are good enough to commit to paper.
Joy has the same effect but then every thought must be written down.
Here, today, at least, you've given me a small space for grief to spill out in inadequate words.
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