Inside my head is a stream of voices, chattering.
There is the voice that recites the novel I am trying to write. Mumbling passages that don’t yet have a place. Anecdotes about characters. Snippets of dialogue.
There is the voice that says “Hey, write your god damn blog. Blog about this….and this…”
There is voice that says
Listen to me
And write me
In couplets if it pleases
Or haikus if you must
Hold me down
and extract from me
something worth reading.
…and I am totally lost. It feels like there is so much I want to write (including much better poems than that nonesense I just made up) that I can’t latch on to anything and make it into something that anyone would want to read. I think though it is one of two things. The first? My tablets are clogging up my brain. I’ve been on them long enough again now to think I don’t need them and I will be honest, this constantly feeling agitated thing is wearing pretty god damn thin.
The second? Lack of faith.
I have no faith that I will ever complete my novel. I fear that, although I love each character dearly and they feel intensely real to me, it’s going no where. I haven’t the skill to pull it off.
I have no faith in my blog. Who want’s to listen to me ramble? Who cares what I think. I’m not funny or talented. I have nothing to say. I have no voice.
I have no faith in my poetry. I have just enough to scribble it down and then hide it from the world. Sometimes I think it’s worth showing to people, then I am filled with embarrassment at the prospect. Filled with shame for thinking anyone would do anything but laugh at my dearest and most treasured outpourings (each one is a finely crafted gem that I have pulled from myself, most likely worthless to others but highly sentimental to me).
In short reader, if there are any out there, I am under siege from writers block.
I don’t even know why I wrote this. Sigh.