Isn’t it funny how the longer you put off something, the more-petrifying it is to pick it back up? It’s as if any guilt I feel over procrastinating gets channeled instead into the idea of how awful it is to admit that I fucked up. The longer I put something off, the more I worry about how it’ll look when I actually start doing whatever it is I’m avoiding. Will people notice that I haven’t updated my blog since last June? Half a year has gone by with me fretting over my disappearance from the blogosphere. I start thinking that perhaps my keeping a blog and linking it to my Facebook was presumptuous. What did I really write about that was meaningful, anyway? Maybe I should keep my mouth shut a while, get some creative juices flowing again, and wait for a good time to pick this weird little hobby back up.
Well, it’s been six months. Keeping my mouth shut and hoping for the best shockingly doesn’t work when it comes to writing! You either do it or you don’t. I never used to believe in Writer’s Block, and after having it the past six months, I still don’t. I always pictured Writer’s Block as being like a clogged sink – some foreign matter is keeping your creativity in check. What was preventing me from writing was the opposite of foreign; it was instead:
- laziness (“Heeeeyyy Netflix!”)
- lack of self-confidence (“No one wants to read this… do I even want anyone to read this?”)
- some screwy belief that Great Writing just arrives on the planet fully-formed and perfect (“Does writing about getting drunk and racing the computer in Mario Kart actually matter on a global economic scale?”)
- concern that I might be too honest (“Maybe I shouldn’t swear. Or get into politics. Or reminisce about this one time, because what if so-and-so reads it?”)
That’s it. That’s all the Writer’s Block was to me. It was me fighting me. I selected the gag and tied it to my own mouth (typing fingers?).
And let me tell you, my six-month-long blog hiatus was agony. It was like eating nothing but fast food for a week. It was like thinking you’re going to burp and surprising yourself by vomiting a little instead. It was like a lime jello and tuna fish sandwich. It was like — I don’t know why all my metaphors involve unpleasant relations to food. I’m on a diet. Maybe that’s it. I wish it was my own personal revelation that made me realize that hey, Whit, get your ass in gear and just write again, dammit, but unfortunately the truth is a lot more shameful: WordPress charged me for my domain again. I was too lazy to contact them and say “hey, I’m not blogging anymore. Can I have my $26 back?”.
So maybe laziness can, in some areas, be motivating.
Bottom line, I’d rather be miserable and writing than miserable and not-writing. Given what I’ve learned, the battles I’ve had in my head, and my various fears, here is my adjusted attitude: My blog has been on hiatus for six months. I fucked up. I’m going to be writing more. Thanks for coming, y’all!