A defective instrument...
Yesterday I went to the pier for the first time in 10 days. I've never gone that long between sessions since 1985, other than when I've been out of town.
I didn't stay away because I was sick or because of the weather. I haven't been going because I've been depressed. Depressed about the failure of my life in general, and about my failure with the otters in particular.
What failure is that? For over a year-and-a-half, I've been taking time off from working ostensibly to write my book about the otters - the book (or series of books) I should have been writing for the last 10-15 years. Yet in all this time, I haven't written a single word. I can work on/write about almost any other subject, but when it comes to my otters, I become mute.
I've never been able to understand why I can't write about the otters. They've been the center of my personal world for a quarter of a century - my one true driving passion in life. That should make them the easiest subject to write about, but it's completely the opposite. It almost feels like there's a physical barrier in my mind that prevents me from telling their story. Even making brief entries in this journal is like pulling teeth sometimes. I just don't understand this block; I never have. The otters are the one thing I know best, yet they're always the hardest thing for me to write about.
In times past, I've viewed myself as the instrument through which the otters would have their story told to the world. This instrument is unsurpassed in certain of its characteristics. No one is better at observing the otters and analyzing their behavior than I am. But the instrument has a critical defect: it has no output function. None whatsoever. It can't write, it can't print, it can't publish. The instrument is therefore worthless. I am therefore worthless...
So I'm afraid now that it's not going to happen. I will never write my book. The only way it will happen is if I can get help and support - emotional support, and economic support, but I have neither. Of the two, the economic need is probably the more immediate. I've been taking time away from my job to give me time to work, but that leaves me with enormous economic uncertainty, and without monetary security, I simply can't concentrate on my work. It's a perfect Catch-22. If I could just get an advance of some sort from some book publisher, that would give me both financial stability and the encouragement to work. If I knew that someone, anyone other than me wanted the book to be written, that would make all the difference in the world.
But I don't see any of that happening. So I'm afraid my depression, and my stagnation, will never see an end...
I didn't stay away because I was sick or because of the weather. I haven't been going because I've been depressed. Depressed about the failure of my life in general, and about my failure with the otters in particular.
What failure is that? For over a year-and-a-half, I've been taking time off from working ostensibly to write my book about the otters - the book (or series of books) I should have been writing for the last 10-15 years. Yet in all this time, I haven't written a single word. I can work on/write about almost any other subject, but when it comes to my otters, I become mute.
I've never been able to understand why I can't write about the otters. They've been the center of my personal world for a quarter of a century - my one true driving passion in life. That should make them the easiest subject to write about, but it's completely the opposite. It almost feels like there's a physical barrier in my mind that prevents me from telling their story. Even making brief entries in this journal is like pulling teeth sometimes. I just don't understand this block; I never have. The otters are the one thing I know best, yet they're always the hardest thing for me to write about.
In times past, I've viewed myself as the instrument through which the otters would have their story told to the world. This instrument is unsurpassed in certain of its characteristics. No one is better at observing the otters and analyzing their behavior than I am. But the instrument has a critical defect: it has no output function. None whatsoever. It can't write, it can't print, it can't publish. The instrument is therefore worthless. I am therefore worthless...
So I'm afraid now that it's not going to happen. I will never write my book. The only way it will happen is if I can get help and support - emotional support, and economic support, but I have neither. Of the two, the economic need is probably the more immediate. I've been taking time away from my job to give me time to work, but that leaves me with enormous economic uncertainty, and without monetary security, I simply can't concentrate on my work. It's a perfect Catch-22. If I could just get an advance of some sort from some book publisher, that would give me both financial stability and the encouragement to work. If I knew that someone, anyone other than me wanted the book to be written, that would make all the difference in the world.
But I don't see any of that happening. So I'm afraid my depression, and my stagnation, will never see an end...