Ok. My year of writing ended in January and I have barely done anything since then.
Have not missed it. Have not mourned the loss of it.
Have not even thought about it much. Maybe I am truly a reader and only a wannabe writer. I looooooove reading. Reading is me. I truly grieve for anyone who doesn’t love to read. How do you get through life without a good book to anchor your day? How do you survive without reading every day? Films are great, yeah, and music absolutely but without books to read I would be adrift psychically, emotionally, mentally, creatively. I wanted to write because I love to read. I thought that if I could love writing as much as I love reading the world would make sense to me in a way that thoroughly nurtured and delighted me. If writing would feel as immersive and natural and absorbing and juicy and sustaining forever and ever amen-wouldn’t that be so great? That was my wild dream. My hope. My quest sort of.
So okay. Didn’t turn out that way really. I did the daily writing. I loved the classes I took and the energizing talks and recordings and podcasts I lavished upon myself. I felt inspired and fed and excited at times. All good. The struggle to produce writing I liked and that others also liked was not exciting and inspiring. The daily wrestle with the negative energies of sloth and pride and impression management drained the immaculate purity I imagined a writing life would be until the thought of writing no longer seemed anything related to my love of reading. I could have one maybe but not both.
Now true that reading is a solitary blessing without the need for any other souls presence. Part of why I love it. I do not require the approval or company of others when I am reading a really great book. I like that. Prefer that. While writing seems to demand interaction. Demands a vulnerability and intimacy and fear of failure that my lovely reading never requests. Writing did not soothe me the way reading does. Writing stirs me and bumps me. Gets under my skin and skitters vaguely hither and thither. It is not a restful place. It prods and pushes and twists a snaky slither inside me.
So. Not what I had in mind. The beautiful notion that maybe writing itself would feel completely wonderful and that I would be utterly filled with my story, the characters, places, events, the unfolding of a cool world of my own creation- maybe not so much. Nice vision. Sweet thing to wish for. Just not happening here. Don’t know why.
Anyway. I’m glad I got back to my little blogworld for a check-in. Thank you to whatever writing forces or sources or godlets there might be.