Sorry, no, not a story.
A post, because this is, in fact, and contrary to popular belief, a blog.
I haven’t really been posting much recently, aside from the stray dream or two or spontaneous short story. I’ve written previously, briefly, about it before, but not really explained why doing lots of work prohibits me from writing, aside from the immediately obvious reason of time.
I will explain here, since writing this non-fiction-y stuff takes virtually no effort on my part.
Writing, if you didn’t know, is a somewhat strenuous activity. Sure, if you’ve “gotten in the groove” so to speak, and know what you’re writing about, it’s pretty easy, or at least can be.
But aside from that, your mind needs time to relax, to explore possibilities, to play with phrases and wordings. And when you work, it isn’t given much time to do so. So, any time that you aren’t working, it resumes in this partially subconscious task.
But when you aren’t working, the feeling comes. The feeling that you really should be writing right now. That you don’t have time to read, that you need to write.
But then, when you finally set down the book you were reading, pull out a notebook or an empty text file, nothing comes. Nothing.
Then you know that you aren’t inspired at the time, and console yourself with pathetic internal excuses of I have writers block, I’ll do it later when I can.
Then, if you’re lucky, or cursed, or both, an intense feeling of inspiration and writing ability comes upon you. You pull out that notebook again, double click on that file named Untitled.rtf, and –
Nothing. Still nothing.
Because your mind is still relaxing, exploring, and working.
But then, by that time, you have to work. Again. And that special part of your brain that is a writer, huddled in a corner with a cup of tea, is kicked out for “more important things”, though they are anything but.
So yeah. That’s pretty much what has been happening. And it has been happening far too much. I hope it will end soon. I dearly hope so. Being primarily unable to write is driving me [even more] insane, in a way more literally than is entirely healthful.