I Don’t Write Enough

Yes, I’m busy at work, and yes, I’m under a lot of stress, and yes, I’m mired in a half-dozen other necessary things aimed at ameliorating some of that stress. But god damn it, I haven’t written anything (beyond a handful of halfway amusing social media posts) that wasn’t for work in almost a year. This is unacceptable.

Why is it unacceptable? It’s not as though the public is clamoring for my creative output. There’s not exactly a serious demand for another blog post/hastily sketched comic/sarcastic bit of advice. If I surrender to the creeping stultification of age and anxiety, would anyone actually notice? I am far too old and anxious to delude myself that they would.

The reason it’s unacceptable is because I’m consenting to the complete waste of whatever nascent talent and creativity I actually possess. Like any skill, being pithy and/or clever and/or informative and/or eloquent needs to be practiced. By letting whatever meager ability I had lie completely fallow, I’m allowing it to wither, and the longer I neglect it, the harder it will be to revive it. If I permit my schedule and my anxiety (not to mention my abject fear that I’m not half as clever as I think I am) to keep me from at least trying to reconnect with those abilities, it’s only going to get more difficult.

So here’s what I need to do. Fucking write once in awhile. Or more than once in awhile, but c’mon, we both know I’m not going to suddenly overcome every hangup I have about how much I suck and pump out a novel or something. Let’s try a baby step or two, shall we?

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