I've lost the passion for writing. That's not true, actually. I've lost the drive to write, I think, but that's not quite encapsulating the concept like I'd like it to do. This is, as in the above paragraph, probably not aided by my uncertainty as to the specific nature of whatever it is precisely that's been lost. But I just don't feel the same urge to write something, to entertain or ruminate or... whatever I might have done on a given day. I look at the things I wrote last year, and I remember how deeply satisfying writing was. How I would sometimes use my entire lunch hour hurriedly writing an entry because it was bursting out of me like some sort of horrible alien baby lodged in my chest. How I once spent several hours tweaking an entry to get it just so. And now it's... not. It's different somehow, and the only realistic variable - the only variable worth considering in such a matter, given the simultaneous facts of the personal nature of writing and the profound variability of any person, especially myself - is me.
Maybe it isn't that I've lost something. Maybe it's just that I've changed. I don't want to say "grown", because I have a hard time accepting that growth can lead one away from something like self-expression. That much seems more like regression to me.
A part of this I recognize all too well, actually. I've been here before, in a way. A part of this overall lack of drive is my longtime companion who goes by many names but is most perspicuously called I'm Not Good Enough. Like most people who share certain intellectual traits with me, I suffer from a reasonably persistent low self-esteem. No surprise, and I can usually just blow off the clouds of doubt because they are chiefly composed of bullshit. Still, there's always that factor, that little fragment, which aspires to seep in and strike at the least convenient of moments. And given my own personal code of conduct, there are actually a lot of moments for that to happen.
Of course, there's something to be said for a realistic appraisal of one's abilities. I know I am a good writer. I might even be called an excellent writer. But all one has to do is take a random sampling of the various people around blogdrive to see that I am not an exceptional writer. I write well, but I do not write memorably. Sometimes I will put down a book and think about how remarkable the author must be, how noteworthy he or she is - and this is an impression which will stay with me. I note this sometimes also when reading other people on the Internet. I know that some people get a kick out of my writing, and I think that's great. It is, in the end, exactly why I write. But there are people out there who write truly breathtaking stuff with a casual grace which far surpasses my talents of comprehension or replication. I want that ability, to so effortlessly create. To be, in a word, memorable. Noteworthy. It is a state of affairs which requires an awareness of my strengths and my limitations - fundamentally, that however good I am there exist so many people compared to whom my talent is as paltry as a gnat is to me.
Of course, this is essentially self-evident. There is no "pinnacle" of talent, per se. The saying about there always being someone better is quite literally true. I understand that; it hasn't stopped me before, and I see no reason why it should be the principle factor explaining my recent sort of ennui vis-a-vis writing now. That said, I cannot deny that it is a factor, and probably, at this point, the only one I can really identify or understand.
I used to be able to fault a lack of time, which was indeed a serious burden on my capacity to write. Being constantly harried at work resulted in mental burnout, with obvious effects on my abilities in other fields. As recovery times grew longer from increased workload and time grew scarcer due to the same, it was to be expected that certain things could be afforded less of my diminishing focus. Ultimately, my writing suffered. That much would be a fairly logical progression; I have certain curious thresholds, and I am wise enough to recognize when they have been surpassed. The fact that my tolerance for mind-numbing activity was grossly exceeded on a daily basis, however, in no way influenced my ability to address that problem.
Regardless of this, that excuse no longer holds true. Despite my best efforts to stay busy this past week or so (and I have indeed kept busy), my remaining copious amounts of spare time, due to a critical slowdown at work, have remained undevoted to writing. I haven't just been doing other things; I haven't even given writing a thought. It just hasn't come up.
This bothers me. Among the many things bothering me, that is, that particular fact also bothers me. Perhaps a bit more than the other things, really, since it is the crux of the matter from which I began this entry. I've lost... something. I don't know what. I know some of the coincident factors relevant to the effects of it, as evidenced by several paragraphs above, but I can only really measure that loss by the aforementioned effects - the desire to write has simply not appeared in me over the past week despite free time in which to do it, nor has it appeared in me in the many weeks before regardless of my capacity to do so.
I've lost something which is obviously important, but I don't know what. All I know is how I feel about the topic in question, and I fear that the prognosis is not good.
It bothers me.
Regardless of this, that excuse no longer holds true. Despite my best efforts to stay busy this past week or so (and I have indeed kept busy), my remaining copious amounts of spare time, due to a critical slowdown at work, have remained undevoted to writing. I haven't just been doing other things; I haven't even given writing a thought. It just hasn't come up.
This bothers me. Among the many things bothering me, that is, that particular fact also bothers me. Perhaps a bit more than the other things, really, since it is the crux of the matter from which I began this entry. I've lost... something. I don't know what. I know some of the coincident factors relevant to the effects of it, as evidenced by several paragraphs above, but I can only really measure that loss by the aforementioned effects - the desire to write has simply not appeared in me over the past week despite free time in which to do it, nor has it appeared in me in the many weeks before regardless of my capacity to do so.
I've lost something which is obviously important, but I don't know what. All I know is how I feel about the topic in question, and I fear that the prognosis is not good.
It bothers me.
