After reading a few other blogs, whose authors possess more discipline and skill than I likely retain, I came to a small – very small – epiphany. Part of my inability to make myself write when I want and how I want springs from what I would politely label efficiency, but what generally translates to spazziness.
Like many of my peers, I have a notably short attention span. In one sense, it makes me a harsh and incredibly effective critic; if something does not hold my attention, I know that it is not something of particular note. In another sense, it can make me look bat-shit insane. Instead of merely sitting comfortably in my chair and enjoying a film, I shift and go for snacks and twitch and think of other movies that might play in my head during the dull parts of this one. I imagine, in media res, how I would rewrite the dialogue or direct the actor in another take of the same shot. Sometimes, I even play costume designer.
Similarly, if there is even a momentary lapse in action in a video game, or indeed my coding work, I furiously rub my hands together, scratch my scalp, or any other number of ticks that would embarrass even a victim of Tourette’s. Am I a reflection of our times? Without a doubt. Why, just today, when I have an important deadline, I cannot bring myself to concentrate since I have nothing good to play on the computer’s DVD player. I have come to the point where I require overstimulation to function.
And this keeps me from writing. You see, most writing brings with it a sort of ponderous serenity, moments of furious finger-flashing on keys interspersed with periods of inactivity that bludgeon my mind into distraction. When I am struck with inspiration so forceful that even the beating dol-drums of this lethargy cannot restrain me, I manage to create in a threshing frenzy of paragraphs. But chapters or stories or, for that matter, pages are far from my natural state.
I fight with the accusation that I am lazy as a writer. Instead, I think I strive to capture that moment of inspirado without leaving it to the entropy of revision and continuation. Thus am I left with countless vignettes, hinting subtly at stories which I have long since forgotten and poems whose beginnings match neither the tone nor subject of their lavish endings.
Maturity, perhaps, is what I lack. I would certainly agree with the notion that writers age like wine*. Where I have the most growing-up to do is in taking my time, realizing that I needn’t hammer home my entire point within a few paragraphs. Most writing is not like marketing, my “chosen” profession, or like blog entries where readers get this far in and begin looking up synonyms for “rant.”
My mind, due to the stresses of life in America in the 21st Century, is simply not still. I struggle with this in more than just writing. And although my very nature believes that stillness is the wellspring from which the mind and spirit drink, I fear my life is just not possible at that speed. So, unless inspired, I feel like writing is merely wasting what precious little time I have, both in terms of simple free time and in the grander sense of mortality.
It is not my only stumbling block. My tools are rusty, and my confidence is low. Even my more inspired work seems to fade in retrospection and when I make daring attempts to write through the obstacles of apathy and dreariness, I find the work no longer pleasing enough to pursue. I do not mean to be bleak or greedy, but honestly what’s the point? What’s my reward? There are many people out there who pursue writing more fervently and devoutly. Am I so vain that I believe my talent so unique to circumvent the need for all that work?
* – Put forth recently and blogged by both Brian and BB, hard-working and talented and wonderful the both of them.
