Then Again, Maybe Not
I've been asked several times recently why I haven't been writing. I think what they really meant to ask was why haven't I been posting. Because assuredly, I could be writing, working on the novel, or maybe something else entirely - like a screenplay! Sadly, though, the first question is the right question. I haven't written a damn thing in a damn long time.
That's not to say that my imagination has been stagnant. I have a new story churning and I could say I've been working on it and it wouldn't be a lie, but it'd be a stretch. A big stretch, like the kind that leaves you sore the next day. How have I been "working on it"? Well, I've watched a bunch of sailing videos, learned the meaning of the term "naval architecture", and wrote an egregiously short plot summary. Oh, and I'm taking an online Introduction to Sailing class. I like to tell myself it's better than nothing.
Truthfully, it's nothing. Really. So, why haven't I been blogging? Love and narcissism. Say, wha?
Let's take each in turn. First off, LOVE -
I did start working on a blog a few weeks ago when I first came back from Sweden about why/how I fell in love with Stockholm. It stalled out after a couple paragraphs. It's hard for me to put love and feelings into words that do those love and feelings justice. Especially if I don't want readers to think I'm a total idiot for falling in love with a city. No way around it, I suppose. I'm in love. With a city. Like it or like it (Thanks again, Mom, for that little philosophical jewel) or write me off as insane.
Need some proof (of my love for Stockholm, not my insanity)? It's been a long time since I've missed another human being. Sorry, y'all who think I ought to miss you, but it's no longer part of my psychological make-up. Used to be, then things (mostly me) changed. I could estimate why or dump a couple grand on more counseling, but I'm content with it being what it is. I am no longer capable of loneliness or of "missing" anything. Except Stockholm. I've missed friends and lovers in the past and this truly doesn't feel much different. It's visceral. I don't know. Maybe I miss the me I was able to be there. Even amid the urban noise and chaos, my introversion found a quiet, uncommon kind of peace.
Secondly, NARCISSISM -
Ever read Anais Nin? I have. Lord. Last summer, in a effort to better educate myself on LGBTQ literature, I read "Henry and June". God help me and my narcissistic sensitivity. It was a beating from start to finish. But isn't that the essence of the journal/diary/personal blog? The writer has to be full enough of himself or herself to actually think that someone would want to spend precious minutes of his or her life (that he or she can never get back) reading the writer's inner most thoughts. That alone might have been enough to make me slow down. Then months later, I got called a narcissist. Granted the accusation came from a narcissist in a full-blown narcissistic fit and I know I'm really not a narcissist, but it did get me thinking. What made me assume for years that my ramblings and commentary were interesting enough to post for all to read? Why should anyone care what I think?
I'm still grappling with these issues. I've been blogging on and off for over a decade. I've been prolific at times and at others I've been conspicuously silent. I tend to write when I'm troubled - writing is free therapy - and when I have stuff to write about that I want to share. Maybe that's the crux of it - I'm tired of sharing.
I got a journal for Christmas and I write in it religiously every morning. My goal at the outset was to write every day and I've accomplished that. The writing is seldom great, but it does give me a sort of catharsis and helps me stay focused on what's important. For years, I put those kinds of thoughts and ideas in a blog and posted them for the world to read. Am I more private now? More introverted? I'd argue that I am.
So, will I keep blogging? I really don't know. Maybe when I have something to say I think that help others. Maybe, but then again maybe not.
That's not to say that my imagination has been stagnant. I have a new story churning and I could say I've been working on it and it wouldn't be a lie, but it'd be a stretch. A big stretch, like the kind that leaves you sore the next day. How have I been "working on it"? Well, I've watched a bunch of sailing videos, learned the meaning of the term "naval architecture", and wrote an egregiously short plot summary. Oh, and I'm taking an online Introduction to Sailing class. I like to tell myself it's better than nothing.
Truthfully, it's nothing. Really. So, why haven't I been blogging? Love and narcissism. Say, wha?
Let's take each in turn. First off, LOVE -
I did start working on a blog a few weeks ago when I first came back from Sweden about why/how I fell in love with Stockholm. It stalled out after a couple paragraphs. It's hard for me to put love and feelings into words that do those love and feelings justice. Especially if I don't want readers to think I'm a total idiot for falling in love with a city. No way around it, I suppose. I'm in love. With a city. Like it or like it (Thanks again, Mom, for that little philosophical jewel) or write me off as insane.
Need some proof (of my love for Stockholm, not my insanity)? It's been a long time since I've missed another human being. Sorry, y'all who think I ought to miss you, but it's no longer part of my psychological make-up. Used to be, then things (mostly me) changed. I could estimate why or dump a couple grand on more counseling, but I'm content with it being what it is. I am no longer capable of loneliness or of "missing" anything. Except Stockholm. I've missed friends and lovers in the past and this truly doesn't feel much different. It's visceral. I don't know. Maybe I miss the me I was able to be there. Even amid the urban noise and chaos, my introversion found a quiet, uncommon kind of peace.
Secondly, NARCISSISM -
Ever read Anais Nin? I have. Lord. Last summer, in a effort to better educate myself on LGBTQ literature, I read "Henry and June". God help me and my narcissistic sensitivity. It was a beating from start to finish. But isn't that the essence of the journal/diary/personal blog? The writer has to be full enough of himself or herself to actually think that someone would want to spend precious minutes of his or her life (that he or she can never get back) reading the writer's inner most thoughts. That alone might have been enough to make me slow down. Then months later, I got called a narcissist. Granted the accusation came from a narcissist in a full-blown narcissistic fit and I know I'm really not a narcissist, but it did get me thinking. What made me assume for years that my ramblings and commentary were interesting enough to post for all to read? Why should anyone care what I think?
I'm still grappling with these issues. I've been blogging on and off for over a decade. I've been prolific at times and at others I've been conspicuously silent. I tend to write when I'm troubled - writing is free therapy - and when I have stuff to write about that I want to share. Maybe that's the crux of it - I'm tired of sharing.
I got a journal for Christmas and I write in it religiously every morning. My goal at the outset was to write every day and I've accomplished that. The writing is seldom great, but it does give me a sort of catharsis and helps me stay focused on what's important. For years, I put those kinds of thoughts and ideas in a blog and posted them for the world to read. Am I more private now? More introverted? I'd argue that I am.
So, will I keep blogging? I really don't know. Maybe when I have something to say I think that help others. Maybe, but then again maybe not.
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