Burnout
It’s difficult me to think of a time I’ve been more completely and utterly burnt out on writing than I am now. I’ve got a lot to say and even more words to say it, but it just dies when I sit down at a computer. I second guess my reasons for even bothering with it and just end up wasting time on the internet instead.
Writing is generally a pretty pompous, vain pursuit- but it’s what I’ve done most of my life and one of the few things I’m pretty good at. It takes a lot out of me, though and for the amount it takes from me it’s hard to justify exhaustively chronicling my experiences just so I can read back on them months later and so a few people that I most likely will talk on the phone anyway can read.
It all panders to my melodramatic side, my self-absorbed side (the part of me that thinks people actually care about what I did Labor Day weekend, how much I love the Sox and the meaningless turmoil of my inner-life) and worst of all, my vulnerable side. Exposing your vulnerabilities is almost always a bad idea and I’ve learned that lesson again and again.
I’ve considered not entirely scrapping this journal, but placing a moratorium (that may be later lifted) on making any non-private entries. The problem is, I DO still want to write, but if I write only private entries there’s no one to hold me accountable for not writing.
I think my life’s been somewhat interesting lately (sitting behind the dugout in a nearly empty US Cellular Field, having an illuminating and bizarre epic conversation with an ex-girlfriend, making a dubious decision at a party, getting sick with a nasty sinus infection and having a pretty fantastic Labor Day weekend, being scared of the future, finally excited about seeing a lot of shows, etc., etc.). But while somewhere deep down I’d love to write 20 pages about it all, no one wants to read all that and physically I just might not care enough to do it anymore.
And strangely enough, now this is getting long. Maybe this is a phase that will pass… but then again, isn’t everything?
Writing is generally a pretty pompous, vain pursuit- but it’s what I’ve done most of my life and one of the few things I’m pretty good at. It takes a lot out of me, though and for the amount it takes from me it’s hard to justify exhaustively chronicling my experiences just so I can read back on them months later and so a few people that I most likely will talk on the phone anyway can read.
It all panders to my melodramatic side, my self-absorbed side (the part of me that thinks people actually care about what I did Labor Day weekend, how much I love the Sox and the meaningless turmoil of my inner-life) and worst of all, my vulnerable side. Exposing your vulnerabilities is almost always a bad idea and I’ve learned that lesson again and again.
I’ve considered not entirely scrapping this journal, but placing a moratorium (that may be later lifted) on making any non-private entries. The problem is, I DO still want to write, but if I write only private entries there’s no one to hold me accountable for not writing.
I think my life’s been somewhat interesting lately (sitting behind the dugout in a nearly empty US Cellular Field, having an illuminating and bizarre epic conversation with an ex-girlfriend, making a dubious decision at a party, getting sick with a nasty sinus infection and having a pretty fantastic Labor Day weekend, being scared of the future, finally excited about seeing a lot of shows, etc., etc.). But while somewhere deep down I’d love to write 20 pages about it all, no one wants to read all that and physically I just might not care enough to do it anymore.
And strangely enough, now this is getting long. Maybe this is a phase that will pass… but then again, isn’t everything?