It’s finally happened, friends.
It’s been so long since I’ve written any fiction, or even poetry, that I’ve also forgotten how to blog.
Not that there’s nothing in my brain. Oh no, it’s full of all sorts of things — my ever-growing to-do list at the day job, whether my broken sandal can be fixed, when it will feel safe to fly cross-country to visit my family again, how to rescue my tomato plants from the various ailments they’re suffering from this year, the various comfort viewing and comfort reading I’m doing, whether my bathroom ceiling fan is on the verge of breaking down or just needs a good cleaning, various appointments I’m putting off making because they’re not urgent, just how perfect the weather has to be before I’ll go for a long walk, whether any of my fall/winter clothes still fit and how much I should buy to replace them if my size is still changing, what we should name KD’s upcoming spooky book.
The problem is that there’s no narrative. No cohesive whole. Just a set of ping-pong balls ricocheting around and failing to get into phase.
Maybe it’s because of the elephant in the room that we’re all trying not to think about too hard: nothing will ever be quite the same as it was before, but when will normal things feel safe again? Will they ever?
Maybe it’s because existential anxiety on top of everyday busyness is not conducive to creativity, even though we’re all used to living with it now and some of the initial fear has faded.
Maybe because I haven’t gone anywhere or done much of anything in so long that I have no new thoughts anymore, just old ones.
Maybe I’m spending so much time problem-solving and taking care of things at work and handling pandemic logistics that there’s no room for anything extra.
Maybe I just need to walk more, weather be damned. (Except not when it’s miserably hot, and not when it’s thundering like today…you see the problem.)
Maybe I need to watch more TV, binge a book, mainline narrative. (Currently enjoying Schitt’s Creek and Trollhunters: Tales of Arcadia, both comfort viewing in their own ways.)
Maybe I need to stop watching or even reading (ack) until my brain, out of sheer desperation, starts telling stories of its own.
Maybe I need to try typing more. Maybe I need to stare at screens less.
Maybe it’ll come back when it’s good and ready, and there’s not a damn thing that worrying can do to speed up the process. That’s always worked before, sooner or later. Even after times of crisis, even when I’ve deliberately tried to quit, even when I’ve quit through inaction and inertia. One day, the words come back.
I’ll be here and ready.
Wow, I could have written this post. I’ve been feeling much the same, except my issues have been centered on work and health. I’ve had lots of ideas, lots of enthusiasm, but the words just aren’t there. I think it’s partly that elephant kicking our butts – it’s hard to be creative when going through what amounts to a trauma situation. I know mine is also rooted in stress. I’ve more or less given up on it for the time being and like you, have figured that the words will come when they come. I recently said on Twitter that my muse was missing and if anyone saw her to please tell her to come back. 🙁 Maybe our muses are just having some without us?