The Path of Least Resistance

I confess.  I’ve let this blog slide because I have felt like I have nothing to say here.  When I do say anything here, I sometimes feel like all I’m doing is making excuses as to why I haven’t written, or why I can’t or how hard it is.  In short, I feel like a bloody whinger.

I’ve read that to create an audience for a blog, one mustn’t post too often. Or one must have something witty and of great import to say, or else a new slant on an old topic, and one must stick to one topic. Or – ra ra ra  as an old friend used to say.

I’ve been trying to follow rules and formulas about how to express myself in my writing journey and it’s a bloody farce.  I think the time has come to drop all that bullshit and be myself, the way I am, the way I’ve always been and to not think that that’s a bad thing. I do not profess to understand the modern world.  I do profess to understand myself.

Fact.  Writing is sometimes very dull.  Fact.  Writing can mean many things.  Fact.  My writing life is actually very varied and I’ve been trying to pigeon hole it into one tiny little aspect.  Fact. My writing is sometimes inspired.  Fact. My writing is sometimes hard to sustain.  Fact.  Sometimes, I struggle with motivation.  Fact.  I do not struggle with ideas, but their execution.   Fact. I have lots of opinions about many things that on reflection actually deeply shape my writing, and I’ve been censoring these on the grounds that ‘it doesn’t belong in my one-post-a-week-creative-writing-only blog’.

I see stories often in my head.  I imagine all sorts of things when people tell me things.  I don’t know how to translate them onto the page.  My Muse does, but I don’t.  I often don’t know how this mystical process works.  But sometimes, something really good just tumbles out of me.  And I know it’s good because people – not friends, but judges and writers and editors – tell me it is good enough to publish and enjoyable to read.  And it’s enjoyable to write.  I LIKE that.

But I struggle to re-create that.  I struggle with the drudgery of writing, the reality that writing is not just composed of inspiration, but also boredom, frustration, practice, false starts, lame middles, lost threads, obvious endings and sheer hard work to overcome these things.

I don’t know how to overcome them.

Is this enough to sustain a blog? I don’t know.  Should I write more often, even if I have nothing to say?  Why not?  It’s my bloody blog and I did call it a diary.  Do I want to gain an audience?  I am happy when I have one, that’s true.  But in my life experience, the best audiences have come from me just being myself, from the words just coming out, from feeling the truth of what I’m writing, or reading or performing on stage.

But as I said, there’s more to me, my writerly self, than this, this ‘creative writing’.

I spend a great deal of my mental energy thinking about the state of the world, and reading non-fiction about what to do about it, and actively writing to people who can change the state of the world. I read essays and I consider in my own head how to approach essay competitions that I would like to share my thoughts in.  I consider talking to my countrymen through the media, and being as eloquent and intelligent as people like Germaine Greer or David Suzuki or Tim Flannery or David Attenborough.  I actively DO SHIT in my own life to create the world I want (and is creative writing not simply another avenue for this?) and my interests lay heavily in it (if you could glance over my shoulder at any point in the day you would see what I mean) so maybe (insert dawning realisation here) I should use my blog to write succinctly and intelligently on things that I do care about too?  Who put the definition on my writing here?  I’m to blame for listening to others and not listening to me.  I’ve got the myopic vision here.

It’s time to listen to me, and not the do’s and don’t’s of blogdom.

The truth of my reality is, that expressing myself, in any way, always gives way to creative expression.  It’s like the dam breaks.  So I think it’s high time I started letting the river flow again.  Then there’ll be less of that whingeing going on too.


About talesbytink

I've lived various lives in various places but have been a writer at heart the whole time. The experiences of being other things in other lands and times can only make my writing richer. I have no regrets about the road travelled. There are no shortcuts to any place worth going.
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