I’ve been trying to figure out precisely why I haven’t been writing very much. It’s a problem I’ve thought about before, but it’s getting a little scary now; I’ve been living through this personal drought for almost a year now. And I still can’t quite figure out what’s wrong with me.
Over on my old blog, I had actually managed to develop a small readership — a group whose patience I’m sure I’ve exhausted by now. Even with the magic of RSS feeds, I’m certain I’ve been pruned as people periodically update their clients. And that’s fine; I started at zero, and I wrote anyway.
To some extent, I believe that part of the problem is my day job. My function is to solve problems all day, and it certainly saps my mental energy. Coming up with creative solutions taps my mental resources, and when I get home at night, I really don’t feel like writing.
But so what? I’ll be damned (I thought) if I’m going to let a total lack of energy stop me. I’ll write anyway.
This has led to a situation in which I will sit down, write out something, read it over, and trash the whole thing. Oh, I’ve got all sorts of excuses: it’s poorly written; it’s too personal; it’s not just unoriginal, it’s uninteresting; it’s been said more elegantly by a hundred other bloggers already; it’s not been said by anybody because nobody with half a brain would ever say it.
But that’s not it. I’m just tired of being wrong all the time. I used to have the sheer, unmitigated gall to post whatever I thought about any subject you could mention. Now, I no longer know what to think about any subject you could mention.
I suppose that’s why I called the old blog I am Uninformed. I was aggressively curious and tried to post double-sided posts, that made an attempt to understand (or at least ridicule) both sides of an argument. But then I started taking sides, and that led to writing a lot more.
After a long series of personal disasters and living at the edge of financial and emotional melt-down, however, (four years and counting!) I’m back to being lost in the wilderness. What should I think about the latest book or TV show or political development or music or whatever?
How should I know? I’m trying to scrape together next month’s mortgage payment so they don’t kick me out of my house. I’m trying to deal with a family packed with dire medical issues that refuse to resolve themselves one way or the other. None of the things I used to talk about seems important. I mean, nothing.
Except, well, writing is still important to me, intellectually, if not emotionally. But it’s no solution — or even a comfort — for me. I have no intention of pouring my heart out in a public space (well, except for this one time) because it would amount to a pile of solipsistic bullshit. Compared to a large fraction of the planet’s population I’m living the good life. Only the interesting or the ruined have the right to complain (in an interesting way) about things.
People don’t want to read that shit about me. Not in a culture where personal tragedy is entertaining for something like 30 minutes, and then it’s over and see you next week.
I don’t know what I’m going to do. I really have no idea. We’ll see.