Okay, the first thing you should know is that the title of this post is both hyperbolic and misleading. However, a good writer knows the value of an attention-catching title, and thus it shall remain as it is, in all its dishonest and worrying glory.
This has not been my worst year ever in a general sense. In fact, all things considered, this has been a pretty good year. I needn’t go into details, but I’m reasonably happy with the way my life (again, in general) has gone over the past eleven months or so. No, this year has only been dreadful as it relates to writing.
Actually, it’s probably hasn’t been my worst year for writing either, when one considers the fact that I started writing stories when I was, like, five and didn’t finish any story of any remarkable length until I was thirteen. But it might very well be the worst year for writing I’ve had since then.
Here’s what I mean:
I’ve basically written nothing, either fictional or on a blog, since the beginning of August. I’ve written emails, some of them quite long. But that’s it. No posts. No books. No short stories. No journal entries. No poems, for pity’s sake. I didn’t do NaNoWriMo this year – I didn’t even try.
Before that (earlier this year), I majestically failed to write the book I’d been planning to write over the summer, gloriously neglected the other unfinished manuscripts sitting forlornly on my desktop, and most fabulously of all, actually started writing a short story which I never completed.
A. Short. Story.
Looking back at my writing exploits (or lack thereof) of the past year, I think I feel more like a failure than… than… than I don’t know what.
I don’t know what the problem is. I can’t give an explanation for this unprecedented writing slump. For reasons infuriatingly unclear to me, none of my ideas excite me anymore, none of my phrasing sounds right, none of my characters seem worth writing about, and none of my words are coming easily. Day after day goes by, and I watch more movies, and memorize more songs, and read more books, and yearn more and more to be a part of this beautiful world of creators and stories that I surround myself with – and day after day goes by in which I do nothing to bring about this dream, nothing to satisfy this consumptive, life-destroying yearning.
You may have gathered that I have a tendency to unintentionally wax poetic when I’m at the end of my rope. It’s possible that I sound rather melodramatic and pathetic at the moment (I have trouble being objective about my own writing, so I can’t be sure). And if I do – well, I feel pathetic. I feel really really pathetic.
You may consider this an explanation of my deplorable lack of presence on this blog. Or you could view it as a confession. Or some sort of cry for help. Or simply as an overly poetic, overtly emotional, overdue venting of some pent-up feeling, which is probably closest to the truth. What exactly that feeling is I’m not entirely sure I could say (uselessness? helplessness? anger? grief? Those words all seem too strong, but…).
I want to write in 2016. I think I want that more than anything else.
I guess time will tell if wanting it is enough.