You know that thing that happens when you’re, like, an aspiring-columnist-slash-accidental-reporter-turned-reluctant-marketer one day, and the next day, you’re swimming in the blissfully calm waters of dinosaurs and science and geekery galore?
Yeah, well, you don’t have to answer that question. You don’t even have to know what that means. Because I know exactly what happens. The answer: You stop writing.
I don’t write much at all these days. I mean to, I realize I’m still able, but I just don’t. My motivation to write feels purposeless and shallow. Like I simply want to put a few paragraphs on the screen for the sake of seeing my words on the screen.
Hell, we can all do that. Not that we all should. I’d like to strip blogging rights from half of America (and that’s thinking with my compassionate heart), truth be told.
But no words feel like my words these days. I created and conjured the disjointed thoughts behind them, but somehow, something is preventing me from actually taking ownership of those words.
Maybe it’s because I spent most of the blogging heyday talking about myself, and now that I don’t have anything of substance to write about, I’m really sick of talking about myself. In fact, I’d much rather talk about you and your problems than anything me-related. Of course, everything I write eventually circles back to being me-related, but experience truly is the best fodder.
I used to write an advice column. I particularly enjoyed that role. Me, cluck-clucking you, judging you ever so slightly (c’mon, you deserved it a little), smacking you around (with a padded bat, okay?), and then sending you off to fend for yourself in your merry life by patching you up with my seasoned knowledge. That was pleasant. But I don’t do that much anymore. And by “much” I mean “at all.”
So what now? What do I say? What do I write about if there’s nothing to write about?
I can’t fight this feeling of inspirational mediocrity anymore. Fix it.