Everything seems like it’s been moving so slowly lately in the realm of writing. I have so little inspiration. I can sit in bed reading for hours on end, finish a book in a day, but when I go to write something of my own I’m completely stumped. So I go on tumblr and waste time. I binge watch shows on Netflix. I browse different websites that make me feel inspired, but I can’t actually get anything on a page. It constantly feels like I’m floundering; I’m so desperate to find something to write about for my blog that here I am, essentially writing about not knowing what to write about.
It seems like the only time I’m content is when I’m reading. It’s one of the things that makes me feel productive even if I’m not creating. Still, it doesn’t feel like enough. In the back of my head, there’s this little voice that keeps berating me for procrastinating.
One plan (okay, my only plan) is to try Camp Nanowrimo. I haven’t done anything for Nanowrimo in a year or two, but every time I did it, I felt productive and managed to push myself even if what I came up with was totally ridiculous junk. I was consistent, and there was always something good to be picked out of what I was working on, even if the project wasn’t good as a whole. My hope for Camp Nanowrimo is to compile enough for some kind of poetry collection chapbook, which I’ve been trying to work on for months but have been floundering to work on since moving. (Even if it’s an excuse, and I don’t like making excuses, moving really did throw me off of my writing groove.)
Sometimes it feels like I only look the part of a writer: surrounded by notebooks and pens, my laptop open to Scrivener, a binder of pieces in revision, a stack of books being read littering the bedspread.
When I was a kid, I had a little set of plastic doctor’s tools. (Honestly, who of us didn’t?) I’d wear the oversized plastic stethoscope around my neck while pretending to give myself a shot with the oversized plastic syringe. Now, everything is real, but it still feels like a game, like I’m playacting the thing I want to be when I grow up.
It’s just scary feeling like you can’t do the only thing you’ve ever really wanted to do.