I’m not inspired to write this
For the past six years, my life has been a series of awesome obsessions: blogging, 2013–2015; crypto, 2015–2017; writing and publishing a book about my career and time in crypto, 2017–2019.
In 2020 I’m not maniacally driven to do anything. I’m meandering down a number of interesting paths, some of which show promise, then hit a brick wall (standup comedy); others which will develop over the next few months (helping turn Arizona blue); and ongoing minor commitments that help me feel like I’m doing something worthwhile for myself or others, (meditation, volunteering at a food bank).
But I’m looking forward to finding my next big thing, because that is what’s always driven me. There is a good chance it will involve me putting words on a page. I’ve always wanted to be a writer, I now have the time to do so, and my book was well received, which makes me think I can actually succeed. So why don’t I just hit the gas and see where it goes?
Problem is, I’m rusty, uninspired, and feel like I have nothing to say. A little more on each, below.
Rusty. The crafting of sentences part is fine. I don’t feel like I’ve lost my voice. But the endurance part is rusty.
A little background. Towards the end of my book project, I could grind for hours at a time, even when my back was hurting or I wanted to leave and buy a donut. I’d reached a point where writing the book was my job and I’d do it whether I wanted to or not. There was also the promise of a big reward at the end, which kept me going.
It was a two part reward: 1. I’d be finished with the project and could “do whatever I wanted.” and, 2. I could finally tell my story, which I’d been living and thinking about and trying to make sense of for years. I was sick of it, even as I was finishing the book. I feared that I’d lived it and wrote about and rewrote about it for so long that I’d become a mechanical carnival barker on continuous loop. I feared my brain had spent so much time thinking about ME and WHAT WENT DOWN, that the necessity of normal conversational topics had disappeared and I’d be in my deep groove of thinking and talking about my story, long after polite company had started avoiding me at parties.
After a six month promotional period following the book being published in September, I’m relieved to report that I’ve gotten out of my groove. The book and what I needed to say in its pages is in my rear view mirror. I still enjoy talking about it if asked, but I don’t feel the need to think about it all of the time. That’s an outstanding feeling.
But since I haven’t written anything in six months, my lazy bastard has retaken its residence in my mind. Why write a blog or start another book when I can get the car washed, research a possible future project, or spend a few hours scrolling through twitter? When I have had an idea, the old procrastination and utter desperation of sitting before a blank screen paralyzes me, like it always did before one of my big obsessions drove me forward.
Uninspired. Now that I consider myself a writer (I wrote a whole damn book!) the stakes are higher. Before the book I wrote a lot of blogs that were sometimes funny and only ocassionally discussed deeper themes. Most were just topical riffs about what was happening in my life. The overall goal was to attract attention, build an audience. I guess there is nothing shameful about that. Every writer wants an audience, so why should I have problem with that?
But when I’ve sat down over the past few months to write something, it now feels shallow. The parts I most enjoyed writing in the book were the “deeper” sections that attempted to make sense of the various threads running through my life. I told myself I wanted to write more things like that. So about a month ago when a blog tentatively titled “Tracking Mens Penises at my Gym” popped into my head, I tried to write it and couldn’t. The snob in me said it was beneath me. And what was the point, anyway? The working thesis was that men’s penises are of shockingly different sizes and many were disgusting. Exploring this might win me a few yucks but it wasnt going to be noticed by the Pulitzer Committee.
I have nothing to say. This is a feeling you get when you had something you absolutely had to say for years, you said it, and now you are staring at the void. Don’t get me wrong. My mental state is fine. I’m actually happier now than I have been for most of my life. It’s just that I don’t have a big white whale to chase anymore. So I’m looking for something else to say. And I’m thinking about how to write something that maybe doesn’t require a burning hot need to be said. David Sedaris is an example I’ve thought a lot about. I guess there is a thesis to some of his work, but mainly he is saying something small and funny in his essays, and they are outstanding.
I also feel that new themes will appear as I actually put pen to paper. And that is the reason I’m writing and publishing this now. I have a feeling that if I just start writing about what’s going on with me, or other blog pieces that come to mind, I’ll get back into the habit. Once the seal is broken, I suspect (and hope) that I’ll have something to say again. Or more likely, the need to say something big all the time will evaporate. Perhaps then and only then will meaningful themes reemerge, like how the girlfriend who dumped you only comes back once you’ve gotten over her.
So, long story short, please indulge me. I’ll be posting more, hoping for the old incentives to kick in.
