Why Am I Doing This?

Posted on | October 28, 2004 | 4 Comments

I had a purpose once, but I lost it in the shuffle.

I have always worn the badge proudly: fledgling writer. But that one word: write; it fucks up the whole phrase. See, I have torn myself down to a baby bird, peeping furiously, blind and weak. That feeling of sheer nakedness moves the pen (and fingers on the keyboard) but does not fill my heart full with love of the art. I may have lost it somewhere, in rushing and needing. Once my mute voice could only be heard through the whisper of blue ink and smeared pages. A voice found drowns out the subtle nuances of my inner story. So, it is put aside with old magazines and books never read. I always mean to organize those thoughts, to clip interesting articles and place them carefully in solid bindings, but it never gets done. Dust collects. Neglect molds over the shiny pages, filled with bright colors and all that stands in the end is rotten intention.

Can I really find the time? Between beagles, bootie and booze? So many things pull me from my creative desires because there is always “later.” I should know by now that the sparks of creative genius are few and far between. They do not come alight in a mind thick with sad moisture and doubting rain. Confidence is born of a creative flame, and a steady drive lays out the perfect pasture for a wildfire of insightful writing madness. I miss midnight compulsions, sleepily stumbling to the computer because I awoke myself with a great idea. Now, the need for sleep keeps me chained in bed, and the images and feelings float away with every slumber-burdened breath. But, I am going to rise… I have to.

I am going to make a pledge to myself. I shall write for one hour a day, away from Moody Meow. While I like to believe this exercises my writing muscles, it has served more as a justified diversion. So, if you call and I don’t answer, be glad. I may just be writing.

Comments