It is vaguely distressing to find that I have less and less to write about. And when I do write, there is less and less willingness to play the correct notes, find the harmonies of language, hang Christmas decorations on the tree ... make it pretty.
As a matter of habit, of course, I choose to write about it.
Less and less can I find the energy to twist things to my own devices -- often, in the past, taking ordinary events and running them through a Cuisineart of spiritual-endeavor interest... whir and whiz and out comes some milkshake of what I hoped might be a tasty observation.
Writing requires a willingness to put things to my own devices and, perhaps, a hope that someone else will recognize something useful in themselves. But it takes more and more energy these days and it's more and more stick-figure. No longer is there the love and excitement of investing things with something else ... in this case, words.
Because writing has been a lifelong habit, it's somewhat distressing to find the sass and juice has apparently decided to take a vacation in Florida. On the other hand, there is something fitting about it -- sort of like children leaving home. Have a safe trip!
Of course now and then something will cross my bow and I will be drawn back and enthralled with the enjoyment of thinking and shaping and making my point. But, but, but ....
Well, I'm happy to have done it and done it fairly well. Writing suited me and my upbringing and my lifestyle and my neuroses. But lately....
Have a safe trip!