Inspiration takes on many forms, but I've never seen it shaped like seven interlinked pretzels. Sadly, I've seen it deteriorating as my desire to write dwindles.
No, that's not accurate. I long to write. It's the actual writing I don't want to do. This has been a recurring conversation I've had with my wife, my friends, my pastor, and a plastic geranium. Thus far, I can't decide who's provided the best answer.
I want to want.
Don't get me wrong - there are plenty of things I crave: sex, food, sports, sleep, good entertainment, plenty of the standards. If I had the option to play volleyball for weeks on end, I'd be a happy (albeit sore) camper. (Oddly, if I had the option to camp for weeks on end, I would not be a happy volleyer.)
I'm pretty sure I've blogged about this on THR before, but it's the same desire I have to lose 30 pounds. As in: none. I don't want to lose 30 pounds at all. I'd really like to be 30 pounds lighter than I am. But the work, effort, diet, exercise, discipline involved in getting there? Hells no.
So I need to figure out some alternate reality where I enjoy - no, crave the writing process and don't only want a finished story. I think I do, but when I find myself behind my keyboard with a good idea (as compared to my multitude of crappy ones), I still can't conjure the push to start. Or proceed. I'm unsurprised at the variety of quitting point options, but there's no less disappointment.
Successful people do.
Do what?
Do anything.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment