As I sit here at my unfamiliar writing desk, in unfamiliar surroundings, thinking unfamiliar thoughts, I wonder about the point of this exercise. I wonder whether a few days of self-imposed focus will do any more than focus on knowledge I don’t want to possess, supporting a purpose I no longer hold dear.
A few months ago, I was hell-bent on writing for publication; moving words from my brain to the eyes of the masses. But this morning I am not sure I want to write, even for myself. But I will, because I told myself that’s what I came to do. Butt in chair. Words escaping my brain and flooding onto the keyboard, awaiting my own deft hand, later, to sculpt them into things of beauty. At this very moment, that seems so precious and silly; the very idea that I have the inclination, much less the capacity, to create a thing of beauty is ludicrous. Good writers take years and years to perfect their craft; I have been bungling around with writing for decades, writing the same stuff, just using different words.
Even if this sense of wasted time is temporary, I want to capture it, if for no other reason than to know it’s lurking here in my brain.
