I’ve eschewed all contact with writing gurus, writing greats, and writing guidance council. I’ve started, discarded, and restarted several writing projects, none of which have cemented a strong hold to my interest. I haven’t written on this blog since before my birthday, in February. The reason is because I’ve picked up a new job, and now I’m midway through a grueling two month training process.
This position does not improve on my writing career. It’s not a particularly insightful (or, currently, inspirational) position. But it means I’m no longer dirt-poor. I have money, now. I’m living within my means, now. The stress of survival is no longer weighing on my shoulders. I am paying off debt, improving my diet, repairing my broken, disheartened mindset. And I’m not through my training yet: at any turn in the road, I could fail a test and be fired, being dumped right back to where I was before.
I am inspired. I’m always inspired. Perpetually inspired. My 10+ story projects are on hold or discarded, all torn to pieces by the wayside of my forward momentum. Yet, in the wake of this trade-off of time for monetary comfort, I stare at a different writing hurdle: interest. This is new. I have a strong work ethic. There was a time in my life when I worked so hard my mind raced, my words were dull and listless, and my output was incredible. Now, nobody paid me for my hard work. It came between four hours of soccer, studies, and attending school. It came between acting in plays and camping in scouts. I wrote fifty times more, while in high school, than I do now–and I was explosively inspired.
I am not worried for my writing. It will always be there, like an addiction that sometimes yields results. It will grovel and growl and turn tight circles until I pay attention to it, like a pet you once loved but now only throw dinner scraps to his cage. It is immortal and abiding.
I worry more for my job. Some addicts turn to alcohol when placed in sedentary positions. Some turn to gambling or sex or both. Some eat so much food they balloon up and are miserable. I don’t let my inspiration out, so it grows and grows until I dump it.
Stress inspires me. I’ve been chugging along on the Stress’ back for months. Nine or ten. It is a strong beast.
Contemplation inspires me more. With contemplation comes dreams, and deeper thought, and questions. Always with the questions. I struggle now to find a way to keep the whole thing in check.
Currently the newness of jobs (and travel) has kept my mind filled with mundane things like study and patterns and information. I’m not inspired to do much writing at all, of late. Don’t get me wrong: I’m researching Rumi and Susan Mitchell and (OF COURSE) Simmons and some psychological “analysis” protocol for a philosophical, oversimplified story between two characters (three if you count the Abyss, if-you-know-what-I-mean). Yet I only wrote ten pages on it, a week ago, and haven’t touched it since.
But later, when the pattern is in place and I’m working my job, I wonder and worry about my ability to stay focused and not bleed off into bookwriting, proofreading, and reading.
A little intense. I’ve always known the only way for me to live wholly comfortable is to have a career writing books. It is unavoidable. My life, until that point, will continue in varying, confusing shades of unfulfillment.