The last post here was another apology for not posting post and in the many months since then I’ve spent time avoiding another post. More accurately, I’ve been not thinking about posting at all.
I don’t know what the larger community could gain from my perspective. More accurately, I don’t reach a larger community at all.
Other writers have talked about impostor syndrome, procrastination, depression, anxiety, ADHD, writer’s block, and all of the maladies that impact creative endeavors now in the shadow of our inevitable collapse.
Collapse of what, you ask? What you got?
I am struggling to finish what I’ve started and am blocking myself from starting something new. The projects that may hold my attention now will soon dull under my fickle gaze and molder as the last projects do now. My world is a stack of half-finished notebooks and sticky notes of genius gradually losing their grip.
Why should anyone listen to me? I’m just another person who can’t finish their shit.
I wonder about the writing influencers out there, the ones on YouTube or Instagram who are generous and copious in the amount of author content they produce, but how little actual writing they seem to share. Maybe you don’t have to finish anything to be part of this game. Maybe I’m doing it right?
Is it a game? Is there a right?
I’ve overcome a couple of obstacles recently: a professional achievement and a prescription. I would like to assert that I needed both to be able to have the space mentally to write, but that would be a lie. That is revisionist history. I have always had the mental space to write. What I never had was the permission.
From myself. You know that right?
So I am once again asking for your guidance as I rebegin again. I hope I can follow through this time. Your neurotypical motivation is lost on me, so just nod slowly and smile and get back to your own shit.