I hate the expression “long time no blog.” And yet, I’ve forced myself into using it.
I really have no excuses other than the (fairly) standard: new job, family obligations, acting as a less-Southern, less-mustachioed Dr. Phil figure for friends, cleaning my apartment, etc.
Really, the issue is I’ve been uninspired. While I’ve long though that to be an excuse of the lazy writer, it’s true – at some point over the past month or so, I hit a wall that essentially only allowed me to watch old episodes of Chopped and bang out a few truly terrible pages of a short story.
I’m not being self-deprecating here; monkeys with a typewriter could have produced better writing than I did over the past month. I was to the point where it seemed logical to toss out the whole computer and start over, though since I live on the first floor I don’t know that it would have done much damage. And of course, the computer was never the issue, though I created a fairly persuasive three-page Word doc argument for why it might be (sadly, that was the best thing I wrote all month.)
I’d like to chalk it up to laziness or ineptitude – and you’re welcome to the do the same, as I’ve watched enough Archer over the past 33 days that it may have rubbed off on me. But beneath that, there was a very real fear that I think touches everyone who writes.
Namely, that niggling voice in all our heads that whispers “you can’t write.”
There aren’t many insecurities I’ll cop to; I think most writers are the same way, since there’s an inherent element of narcissism in anyone who writes about their own life. But if you take a closer look, there is always a chink in the armor. Reparable, but persistent, like so many tiny porcelain cracks.
This month has been a good one for the cracks. But it’s time to start writing through them.