It’s usually about this time every week when I sit down and write. Today is the day I write creatively, from a place inside me that’s bubbling with imagination and unused, teeny, tiny, baby ideas just waiting to be fleshed out and turned into full-fledged grown up stories. I look forward to this day because I can start with nothing on the screen, slip into a rhythm, fingers spilling as fast as my mind is racing, and finish with something of which I am usually proud.
It’s a hunger to create that drives me every week. By week’s end, my mind is starving for more, to put words on the screen that have a beginning, a middle, an end. I may not be the greatest writer of all time, but it’s something that I thoroughly enjoy, something that fulfils something that I didn’t know I needed fulfilled. Something I didn’t know I was capable of doing. I write these short stories, usually fiction, sometimes borne from a puddle of truth, and I’ve made something for my readers and for myself. If it’s half decent, then great. If not, well, there’s always next week.
But I’m losing that hunger. I’m not sure what’s happening, if this is permanent, if I’ll feel that rumbling inside me again, but right now, it’s gone. I’ve tried to force-feed myself, sat down in front of the computer and yelled at myself from the inside to write. Write. Just go. But nothing happens. And this isn’t some writer’s block I’m trying to plough through. With writer’s block, whether that’s a real thing or not, the desire to create is there, it’s the inspiration that’s lacking. With me, right now, I don’t want to write. I feel like I should, like I’ve set this place up in such a way that it’s expected of me, but I just don’t want to.
This acknowledgement of my lack of desire has been rattling around in me for a couple of weeks, but I’ve been fighting it. It’s spilled over to other places I’ve previously enjoyed – I rarely log into Twitter anymore because being creative in 140 characters is overwhelming and exhausting just to think about. I’ve been more quiet than usual on email and I haven’t been chatting nearly as often. I know this can be some sign of something else – apathy, ennui, whatever – but I don’t think it is. I’m fine, really, I’m just a little drained right now, creatively.
I’m not going to force myself anymore. Not for now, anyway. But I’m also not quitting anything. I’m not a quitter, or at least I hope I’m not, but I know when to go easy on myself. You can’t force something that isn’t going to happen and it’s just not. Not right now. Maybe next week, perhaps the week after or next month, but just not right this moment.
And, who knows. Maybe I’ll wake up tomorrow and my mind will be bubbling with tiny baby ideas once again and my fingers will be itching to hit the keyboard. I hope that does happen. But until that does, I’ll just be hanging back; here, but in a different capacity than I have been as of late. I hope we can still be friends.
Ironically, this is my contribution to this week’s Indie Ink Challenge. I’ll sign up again when the hunger is back.