I was about to close this blog down.
I was about to end the WordPress subscription and let the domain fall idle.
I was far too busy to write, I said. I had far too many other things on my mind.
The world had its demands, I said. All of those other things were more important.
And what did it matter, anyway? This blog, this little seat at the bar I’ve occupied for the last five years, has never been anything more than a place for me to write in a personal, intimate style I would never use anywhere else. It started as an experiment, morphed through a stage where it was “practice” and training, and in the end became…something else, something I can’t define.
Now, my father likes to talk about optimism. He likes to remind me — the cynic of the family — that how we choose to view things is important in how we react to them. Why I don’t share that same outlook is something we could debate for a very long time, but it is not germane to these words. I understand the outlook. More than that, I can even sometimes manage it…
So, when a technical trial and some serious process changes turned to a layoff notice months before I expected it, I decided to play the optimist.
Err…well…I decided to get drunk, actually. Then I decided to play the optimist.
I haven’t written a creative word in months. I haven’t explored a character, conceived a scene, or even so much as contemplated something so diabolical as subtext and socio-political commentary.
*sigh*
I couldn’t figure out why I was so unsatisfied. I couldn’t figure out why my temper had so frayed, nor why energy and enthusiasm had fled. That black dog, he was beginning to howl, and I couldn’t figure out why.
Two days ago I started thinking that I needed to write something…
…and I didn’t know where to start. Hell, I didn’t even know how to start.
The blank page on my screen was no longer an invitation, it had become a barrier. It made me feel small and insignificant. It reminded me of better days, and I think we all know just how poorly I handle nostalgia and memory.
You have a choice at that point, you know. The obstacle can be too much; the mountain too high; the price too steep…
Or you can just shut the fuck up and go back to the basics. That was advice I gave four or five years ago, by the way. When the writing suffers, when the words won’t come, just shut up and go back to the basics. Just write. Just be you. Be who you are, whether you chose to be that person who lives through the words, or were born that way, doesn’t matter. For good or for ill, it is who you are…so be that person. Be that writer.
For me that means sitting down in a pub with a beer at my elbow, music blaring in my ears, and an intentional pushing back of the cacophony of mental noise that has so drowned that little voice at the back of my mind…
Welcome back, little voice.
{Note — Yep, I’m re-using a song from a Christmas post I wrote a few years ago. I love the song, and the sentiment still works, so here you go…}
George RR Martin had it wrong, by the way.
Finding My Way Out 