Earlier this autumn, a good friend asked me when I plan to write more stories. I had no answer for him.
It's sad, really, having to disappoint a friend and a fan like that. My bet is, he'd be even more disappointed to be offered some half-assed writing about nothing much. We're all flooded with reams of text all the time these days. Not least, I suspect, because that's how writers are taught to keep going when it seems too hard: just type away like a million monkeys and sort it out afterwards.
Any luck writing a new Hamlet already?
Oh, writer's block is all too real all right. People who claim it's not? Bet they don't really care what comes out of their keyboard. As long as they keep the editors happy. Or the "SEO" experts, whichever. Because, you see, writer's block simply means having little to say at the moment.
That's me right now. Comes with having an increasingly empty life. It's not something you can fix by typing faster. Or at all.
I tried being all literary and stuff, stringing pretty words together for the sake of the art. It led to my weakest story this decade. I tried writing about places that left an impression on me. It fizzled out quickly. Trying to weave a zine went a little further, but still not quite enough.
Writing is awesome, but not for the sake of it. Write to remember; write to educate; write to understand, to amuse, to soothe. You may not even be aware of it. Except when your own words ring hollow: that's how you know the "why" got lost along the way.
These days, my only reason to do anything is because the alternative would be to lie down and never get up again. Not exactly a fount of joy to share with my readers.
Even trying to round out some of those tags in the sidebar has proved tricky. One month on, one month off. And it's been nearly a year by now.
Ask me again next month.