Okay, so I sit around on a plane so much—generally working or sleeping—that I thought I might use the time better and actually do something productive, like write a blog post or two. Or three. Or as many as I feel the need to write. If I can actually finish what I start.
I have this disease: I will often have a great idea, an incredible couple of lines of insight or funniness, and I’ll race to write them, and then I’ll stop because I’ve completely run out of anything good to say. Or, worse, I start getting all philosophical and boring. And there’s no way I have the time to write those great blogs I’ve been reading that have a plot and stuff. And I’m not intelligent enough to write like that in one sitting. Jack Kerouac I ain’t. (Though even he rewrote, apparently. I guess it was all a misunderstanding, anyway. He said he thought the first draft should be written without pause, just write, all your ideas right there on the page. Then you edit. But let’s face it, I can’t even write a first draft that well).
And then there’s this hesitancy about what I should be writing about. I want to write about a lot, but some of it has been said better by others (especially the life-as-a-modern-dad bit) or not for public consumption, which means that’s the stuff I totally am dying to write about. So I often find myself writing about writing in this blog. Maybe that’s the overarching theme of thinkfeelbe: how the hell do I communicate?
Then, of course, there’s comment envy. I have an ego. I know, shocking. So I get a little (a lot) jealous of other bloggers who get 130 comments about a haircut. I mean, c’mon. My stuff is interesting, right? Right? Hmmm…maybe I should write about…hair? Um, no. Maybe I should just write better, more interesting posts. Which is ironic, because I went to college to study writing.
And therein lies part of the problem.
I’m convinced that my grad program tried to kill me. Metaphorically. By that I mean the writer-in-my-head. Y’see, my grad program was mostly about critical theory and criticism and being critical. Um…where was I? Oh yeah, criticizing my own writing. Because what happens when you read about criticism and literary theory 24/7, you become a 24/7 critic. I couldn’t write more than about five lines before my critic would pipe up with an “Ahem, I say there, I do believe you have no idea what you are doing.” (With an aristocratic British accent, of course). My friend loved this one book-about-writing where the author used the metaphor of the radio station KFCT playing in her head whenever she tried to write.
So, what am I looking for from you, my hardy (and obviously unbalanced) readers? I’m just not sure. A shoulder to cry on? Some bread with my wine? A punch in the nose? Probably.
Thanks for reading/listening/commenting/ignorning me