I’ve spent the weekend wondering whether Friday’s post was my last. I’m running on fumes, tired of myself, with nothing left to say. No matter how many times I ask myself why keep writing, I can’t come up with a good answer.
When do I admit this isn’t just a slump? When do I accept this isn’t who I am?
Or if it is who I am, and I hate who I am, how do I reconcile the two?
And if I stop, who am I then? What does that say about me?
I have three choices: 1. keep writing and posting; 2. keep writing, but stop posting; 3. stop writing.
The first sometimes feels like I’m scribbling as fast as I can just to crumple up my paper and toss it over a cliff. And yet, it keeps me coming back to that cliff’s edge every day with a fresh sheet of paper. It’s a mission of sorts. Something to do.
The second feels pointless and sad. At least when I toss my paper off the cliff it goes somewhere. Somebody might find it. The wind might carry it. If I keep everything to myself, the stack is going to collapse and bury me.
The third…that’s the big one, isn’t it? That’s the “why bother” at the heart of everything. That’s the impulse to throw myself over the cliff. That’s the choice that reminds me that the real issues aren’t about writing at all.