It's been a faintly frazzling week, and I feel like I owe someone - you, me, my friends - some sort of apology though I can't say for what, exactly; do more, do less... there's really just a balance I feel is missing, and I don't quite know how to get back to it. Indeed, if ever I had it.
A new coworker friend, who I'm talking to about potential web design for this page, complimented me on my writing, and the fact that I found things to write about each day. It was nice to hear, but also sort of bewildering... when from this end it just feels like the writing requirement is endless and unrelenting. If I'm tired, if I can't come up with pithy thoughts in a hectic time frame... then there's nothing, and readership drops (I don't blame you, why stay when there's nothing new?). So I don't have a choice... or so it can seem. I just have to write more.
A while ago, when I was struggling even more than now... J in Baltimore offered me the highly constructive advice of "stop writing about not writing," and I've tried, mostly successfully not to (with the occasional slip)... but writing about writing is part of what I do; writing this blog has forced me to think about not just what to write, but why I write, what I get out of it, what I put into it, why this is so satisfying and at the same time, such a struggle.
The thing is, if I think about it, this "never enough" quality has haunted me forever, in everything I do (and don't do): it's never enough, I never try hard enough, do it good enough, do it long enough... time has made it easier for me to just let things be, let time take time, let the pop psychology advice of our age take hold. But all I do is think about what needs to be written, what I could be writing, what I should have written that has now become outdated. I've been amazed to discover - as I've known, informally, for years - that I really see some things that others don't, or express ideas that others find revelatory. Get a rep like that, and you can kill yourself trying, endlessly, to top your last incredible insight. And really, as insights go, mine don't usually impress me all that much. I mean I like them... but I knew them, anyway.
But more and more, I really like what I write, I mean to the point of swelling pride for my creations. My writing's gotten tighter, the words come easier, the ability to take a topic and "go deep" has become more natural, less forced. I want more of it, and dammit, there's just not enough time in a day, and it's hard to pivot from work and commitments and friends and life in general (memo to self: replace Driver's License) and just jump, fully formed, into deep essaying. So much to say, no time to say it, always under pressure... and the rest is still unwritten.
Maybe I just need some sleep. More tomorrow... as always.
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