Some days, I know what I’m going to write about before I sit down. Sometimes I can’t type fast enough, for the discourse winding out in my mind. Too many topics and too many angles for discussing them are problems I have encountered.
Unbelievable, almost, on days like this. This is one of those days when, though I have committed to writing, I seem to have nothing to say. My confidence – in having something worthwhile to say, and in having the ability to say it – wanes.
I run through current events in my life, looking for a topic I can expound on. I have girlfriends visiting the island; the second of my drawing classes is this afternoon; the garden is still offering up beans, tomatoes and squash; the summer-like weather is holding on; the lawn needs to be mowed.
“My writing has devolved to the equivalent of a newsy Christmas letter,” I tell myself. I finish the lecture with a bit of sarcasm: “Oh sure, my live is soooo interesting, I can’t talk about anything else!”
I page through a few writing books, looking for prompts that might offer possibilities. The sense of inadequacy pervades: “Impossible…nope…nope…can’t do it…not today…no way.” “A better writer,” I tell myself, “could do something with that idea.” Not me. Not today.
I know this is a passing phase, the result of rushed writing sessions and not enough time to explore ideas. It happens. I am still a writer. I am not giving up. Or, at least, I’m only giving up today.