It's not about time.
This writing thing; this thing I haven't been doing much of lately. This summer I was telling myself, "you're just overwhelmed, you just have too much on your plate. You're just stressed. It will pass, then you'll get back to the writing thing."
It wasn't true. It has never been true. How busy I am has never been directly proportionate to how much I write. Actually, and unfortunately, I'm pretty sure it's been the opposite for most times in my life--the busier I am, the more I write.
It hit me tonight that I just have to own it--something went out of me. Somewhere, several months ago, I just lost the thread. The ideas, the motivation, it stopped flowing. I have a lot of theories as to why, but no real way of knowing. Ebb and flow. Give and take. Yin and yang. You're in, and you're out. I'm not sure why it happened. And I don't know the way back.
Life is an unpredictable thing. It doesn't unfold neatly and satisfying like a story. We try to fix this fact by looking for patterns and signs and phenomena that will give shape to the uneven, perplexing and contradictory flow of events and datum that comprise our confounding existence. Why is this happening? Why should I have the knowledge, hardwired into my soul, that I am supposed to write--and lack the will and confidence to carry it out?
There are answers--but that's one of the problems. Answers. As in plural. There are multiple possibilities to explain the problem. I don't write because I'm not really supposed to; I lack the talent. I don't write because I am afraid of failure. I don't write because I am afraid of success. I don't write because nefarious forces would prefer to keep me down. I don't write because my time is better spent doing anything else.
When does it end? The endless navel gazing; the woe is me; the what does it all mean?; the meta-writing, bore-my-socks-off just shut up or let it out already please waiter bring the check if this is the best you've got I have a plane to catch stop wasting my time you were meant for better and you squandered it so stop depressing me with your heap of a junker that won't start because you won't let it.
I don't know. Stay tuned, I guess.