I’ve been writing all morning with nothing to show for it. I can feel myself trying to force the words to fit and somehow create meaning where there is none. What is wrong with me?
Nothing. Days like this (weeks like this) are as much a part of writing as those when everything flows together effortlessly. I can add and delete endings, change tenses, omit prepositions and adjectives and adverbs until my fingers bleed. Nothing I do to those words today will make them want to stay together. There’s no soul to what I’m writing. No heart. No life.
I’m not sure when I started thinking I had to write poetry every day. I think as more people started reading and liking posts (total shock to me, honestly), I coded that not just as encouragement (thank you, by the way), but as a challenge. (Hello, I’m Aries. Nice to meet you. Let the competition begin!) Granted, with me, the competition is almost always with myself. I avoid competing with others as much as possible. I still want to win, but I don’t need you to lose. I’m loser enough for all of us.
Before I poked my nose out into the world with this blog, I could stop writing when I felt this way. I stayed away from writing poetry for years. Years. Like thirteen of them. So, this new pressure to produce something vaguely readable every day has mostly been good for me. Sometimes, though, I just can’t make anything work. I need to find a way to be okay with that without going silent for decades.
Meanwhile, I will keep plugging away in one form or another. I’m not giving up just yet.