I believe that one of the biggest challenges of people who write is the actual act of writing itself.
Though it may not be true for everybody, this is a current malady of sorts that my friends and I have suffered. This came about when we somewhat delved into the world of mass article production and wrote like there is no tomorrow.
The trouble with these kinds of things is that after a while, the love of writing withers away into nothingness and well... for some of us, we struggle to find those moments that make us bleed. A morbid thought, I agree, but most of the good stuff that really hits where we desire it to hit is when you grasp from the bottom of your gut and just bleed.
I have not bled in a while.
Several things keep me from bleeding out in the open. But nothing is stopping me from bleeding in private. But I seem to have lost interest in that as well.
It is a shame, at least, for me, to lose the way I used to write as freely as I wished.
I blame the times when I took my writing for granted and wrote mass produced articles instead. Wait. I blame myself for going in that direction.
But now I can only attempt to retrace my roots and tap into what I used to have.
Keeping a diary, a journal, a blog, the way it is meant to be is a goal. Among other things.
I have troubles with this as well, but I guess these will not be solved unless I give myself the whacking I deserve.
Virginia Woolf once wrote in her diary that the value of keeping a diary or a journal helps '...loosens the ligaments. Never mind the misses and the stumbles.'
So this, I guess, is exercise.
No comments:
Post a Comment