The deal was supposed to be that once a day, every day this year, I would sit down for twenty minutes and write something. Whatever I write doesn’t have to be ground-breaking or star-making, but my hope was that it would be mildly meaningful, or somewhat substantial.
I’m finding every evening though, when it is time to write, I have nothing. Everything that flows through my brain is rubbish, and of late, I feel angry about it. Frustrated.
What is so hard about having something to write about. There are gazillion gazillion things in existence, and I can’t find a single thing of interest to cogitate on? What is the problem?
I guess I question why I am doing this exercise then, if I can’t thing of topics and I feel angry.
Because, in my mind, this should be easier to do.
Why can’t I think of anything worthwhile to say?
Because I feel like I do the same shtick every two or three days. I cover the same issues, the same frustrations, the same problems. And the topic always comes back to me, and my insecurities and frustrations.
Circling the rock to which I am chained.
I am sure my feelings about my writing reflect the results of my self-evaluation at this time of my life.
I see myself as boring, or unintelligent, or neurotic, or mind numbing, and I also expect any one who reads anything I write to think that as well.
I can’t get away from that darn rock that keeps me anchored to angst.
“Everything you might say has already been said.”
“What makes your writing special? It’s just words that nobody probably wants to hear.”
“My life is boring.”
Faith, please find me.