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Writing everyday is like alcohol or exercise.  You get addicted to it.  You need it.

It feels really, really good.

Except when you have nothing to say.

I believe that my last post is only two days old now.  Only two days that I haven’t written on this site.  Only two days that I haven’t written anything.

And, already, I’m depressed.

It’s not as if ideas haven’t been floating about in my head.  They have.  I just haven’t had enough inspiration to organize those ideas, to turn them into words, to roll them out and form them into coherent bits and pieces fit enough to share.

This loss, this lack of inspiration, turns everything just a little bit gray.

It’s like losing a lover.

And then I have to wonder, isn’t that narcissistic?  To always have to have something to say?

My husband is a musician and I would guess, by his long faces and mindless television watching, that when he is not playing music he feels the same way.  He’s just surviving.

I don’t mean to sound melodramatic, but it’s true.

I’m my best when I’m creating… something.  Anything.

That’s why I’m writing about not being able to write.  Because, if I didn’t write anything, I’d be feeling even worse.  I’d be staring at the walls right now, head in my hands, unable to come up with something to do.  In fact I’m doing that anyway, in between sentences, taking deep breaths to feel more alive.

I’ve been like that since I was a little girl.

Now, I could go on and on about how I need to write, about how I’m all the tortured artist.  But, instead, I’m going to put my mining hat on and I’m going to explore.  Explore why it is that I haven’t been able to write anything for the last few days.  Why a week or two ago I had to write a post about my excessive anxiety– anxiety that was surrounding my contest entry.

You can accept that I’m not at my writing best (what with the mining reference and all) and come with.  Or, you can quit while your ahead, close this window, and go on to bigger and better things.  Your choice.

(Pause on your end.  Slight deliberation.)

Thank you for staying with me.

So, why this sudden halting silence?

It’s easy.  It’s pressure.

You see, some time ago, I joined an online group called the Mom Bloggers Club.  I had seen it advertised on the back of a copy of Brain, Child and I thought it might be a good way to get ideas, gain a greater readership, see what else was out in cyberspace aside from little ole me.

I found it overwhelming.  I created a page and then I didn’t go back.

Until two days ago.

See the parallel.  Wow, you’re quick.  (And I am sounding awfully insulting.)

Two days ago, I got back on the site for much the same reason that I initially joined.  Only this time around, I joined some groups and posted some comments and asked someone to, dum-dum-dum, be my friend.

And it worked.  Sort-of.  A few new people read my blog.  They seemed to like it.   And that was that.

Then, came the silence.

I suppose this is a time to be honest.  I’ll admit, I entertain delusions of grandeur.  I think I’m special.  I believe that some day, I’ll write something profound.  That I will dust the dirt of this little town off my heels and be someone.  (Actually, I’d like to stay in this little town.  But, I still want to be someone…)

And, what does that even mean?  To be “someone”?  Fame and fortune?  What?

So, basically, when I realized that I was trying to put myself out there, out there among the 5,500+ women who belong to the Mom Bloggers site alone, I think I sort-of freaked out.  Got stage fright.  Ducked my little head back into my little shell.

The editing hand took over and squeezed the living shit out of my writing hand.

If people are going to actually read what I write, then I don’t want to write anything lame.  I want to be fantabulous all the time and every day.  I want to prove, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I. have. talent.

Deep breath.

I feel better already.

I’ve been writing on this site for almost two years now and I think it’s about time to face the fire, woman up and brave the heat, see if I got what it takes.

And realize, again, that I don’t have to be perfect.

And, maybe, that I’m already someone.

My husband is always telling me to write for the trash, to just let go, to not expect the inspiration to come everyday.

Like he’s a writing coach or a damn Yoda or something.

But, he believes in me and expects me to believe in myself.  And, I guess that’s all that matters.

My belief in myself and the trash can that I’m writing for.

(I’m not referring to you as trash, I’m just pretending that you’re not there.)

So now, I’ve said it.  I’m afraid.

And, I’m not staring at the wall trying to find something to feel alive about.

Thanks for listening.

This entry was posted on Friday, July 31st, 2009 at 12:18 am and is filed under On Writing. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.