Why am I posting this? Don't ask. There is no answer.
"And sometimes thro' the mirror blue / The knights come riding two and two; / She hath no loyal knight and true, / The Lady of Shalott." -Tennyson
I have probably at least a hundred different germs for poems written on at least twenty-five different sticky notes and pieces of scratch paper, none of which I ever seem to feel any inspiration to actually expand from two- or three-word blobs into actual poems (or stories). I've had two tabs open (re: the city of Kitezh and John Wesley, founder of Methodism) in my browser for at least a month in the interest of at some point being inspired by their nagging presence to write about them. Have they been dealt with? No, no no no no no. Not yet, anyway.
Will I ever again find the impetus to concentrate on writing something of quality? Since November, I have been hard pressed to focus on any writing long enough to see it through to decency, let alone to completion. I wrote a couple acceptable papers last semester, and several shamefully bad ones. I have written almost nothing creative for my own benefit, and only a few things for classes (low quality, things I have little personal investment or even creative interest in). I am ashamed of myself as a writer. I used to force myself to write every single day, I used to have a routine, I used to have discipline. Now I spend the bulk of my days feeling sorry for myself.
They say that sorrow, heartbreak, and suffering beget creative production. So far, I have proven this adage to be incontrovertibly false. So I have a broken heart already, and then on top of that, having a broken heart doesn't inspire me to be productive? That breaks my heart even further.
I'm not aiming to be famous. I'm not aiming for J. K. Rowling-dom, I'm not shooting for literary canonization. I would just like to write something that I felt I could be proud of. What I've been writing (and not writing) for the last six + months has not fit into that category.
I have probably at least a hundred different germs for poems written on at least twenty-five different sticky notes and pieces of scratch paper, none of which I ever seem to feel any inspiration to actually expand from two- or three-word blobs into actual poems (or stories). I've had two tabs open (re: the city of Kitezh and John Wesley, founder of Methodism) in my browser for at least a month in the interest of at some point being inspired by their nagging presence to write about them. Have they been dealt with? No, no no no no no. Not yet, anyway.
Will I ever again find the impetus to concentrate on writing something of quality? Since November, I have been hard pressed to focus on any writing long enough to see it through to decency, let alone to completion. I wrote a couple acceptable papers last semester, and several shamefully bad ones. I have written almost nothing creative for my own benefit, and only a few things for classes (low quality, things I have little personal investment or even creative interest in). I am ashamed of myself as a writer. I used to force myself to write every single day, I used to have a routine, I used to have discipline. Now I spend the bulk of my days feeling sorry for myself.
They say that sorrow, heartbreak, and suffering beget creative production. So far, I have proven this adage to be incontrovertibly false. So I have a broken heart already, and then on top of that, having a broken heart doesn't inspire me to be productive? That breaks my heart even further.
I'm not aiming to be famous. I'm not aiming for J. K. Rowling-dom, I'm not shooting for literary canonization. I would just like to write something that I felt I could be proud of. What I've been writing (and not writing) for the last six + months has not fit into that category.