No joy in Mudville
I have had an epiphany of sorts. I no longer find any joy in writing.
It has become a "job"; another task to accomplish. Between my job and home life I spend all my time being "creative". I have to remember a tremendous amount of material constantly; there is no respite. I have to come up with plans, designs and ideas constantly. There is no joy in coming up with same for fictitious (or not so fictitious) characters. My garden (when it finally warms up here) and my animals are simple and, though physically demanding, require only my instincts and common sense. There is no plotting in the pots; no plans in the litter pan; no creation on my direct part. The plants do that themselves with very little help from me that I have to think about. The animals return affection for simple acts of feeding and care. The plants feed and beautify my life for water and compost.
There are those who say that I should quit my employ. In this economic climate? If there was an alternative, perhaps. But then I would be thrust into a new milieu where I would be learning and working on new ideas with new challenges inherent therein. Writing was a release. As has been pointed out, I am a story teller and I like telling stories. It's easy. The stories flow through me, get told and go away. Simple. Writing, even this little diatribe, is hard, it requires thought, focus and concentration. I no longer possess these things in any great store as they have been and continue to be used up at work and at home on other matters.
Suffice it to reiterate that writing is no longer a joy. It gives me no pleasure. Therefore, though encouragement has come after at least a decade of nothing, it appears to have come too late or at an inopportune moment. It would appear that all things including this dream must pass.
It has become a "job"; another task to accomplish. Between my job and home life I spend all my time being "creative". I have to remember a tremendous amount of material constantly; there is no respite. I have to come up with plans, designs and ideas constantly. There is no joy in coming up with same for fictitious (or not so fictitious) characters. My garden (when it finally warms up here) and my animals are simple and, though physically demanding, require only my instincts and common sense. There is no plotting in the pots; no plans in the litter pan; no creation on my direct part. The plants do that themselves with very little help from me that I have to think about. The animals return affection for simple acts of feeding and care. The plants feed and beautify my life for water and compost.
There are those who say that I should quit my employ. In this economic climate? If there was an alternative, perhaps. But then I would be thrust into a new milieu where I would be learning and working on new ideas with new challenges inherent therein. Writing was a release. As has been pointed out, I am a story teller and I like telling stories. It's easy. The stories flow through me, get told and go away. Simple. Writing, even this little diatribe, is hard, it requires thought, focus and concentration. I no longer possess these things in any great store as they have been and continue to be used up at work and at home on other matters.
Suffice it to reiterate that writing is no longer a joy. It gives me no pleasure. Therefore, though encouragement has come after at least a decade of nothing, it appears to have come too late or at an inopportune moment. It would appear that all things including this dream must pass.