I’ve not written for several days because, basically, I couldn’t be bothered. It seems unusual, now that I think about it. Writing is a natural form of expression for me. Others share things conversationally, or post their snippets of thought to social media, or just bury it deep inside them. I write. It just happens generally, without a second thought. I guess there will be times when you need a break from that, and that’s my excuse for the last few days. I still don’t feel enthused. I’m writing now more or less to allay any fears that I might have fallen off the roof, or been pinned by a plummeting piano. I’m here still, alive and kicking.
Now that I’m here what do I write about? I suppose I could fill in the blanks, but that seems awfully boring even for me. I could fire up and rant about some new political outrage – God knows there’s plenty I could complain about. It’s wearying though, and depressing more often than not, and in my more pessimistic moments, seemingly futile. I guess I’m jaded, but then, who isn’t?
What’s left? I could rabbit on about some neutral subject I suppose, like how I’ve recently rediscovered Simon and Garfunkel after about 20 years of neglect, but hell, can’t even be really fagged doing that either.
What remains is this, writing about writing. It may seem self-indulgent navel gazing, but for me at least it’s interesting occasionally to step back and consider the actual process I normally take to without any thought.
It’s rare that I think about my audience when I write. I just move to it naturally, an integral part of my life. While sometimes I write to make a record of something, mostly my writing is the output of what is in my mind, the things I ponder, and am occasionally roused by. They’re stories extruded from me by an entirely natural process.
‘Conscious’ writing like this is the exception. In general conscious writing is much more difficult because you’re writing to a defined end, and more so, because you’re aware of it. Awareness makes the job of writing much more difficult. It’s the difference between performing an action reflexively, and doing it mindfully. It’s less smooth, and seemingly unnatural.
Whilst I’m conscious of writing this my care factor is very low, and so it flows pretty easily from me. Ask me to write an essay say, or a story, and I’m conscious of the effort involved, and the stakes attached to it. You’ve got to work then to make it flow.
I think this explains why I’ve taken a break from it these last few days. The honey has hardened. It doesn’t flow, and as it doesn’t flow it doesn’t present itself to me. There feels no necessity to write because there is no flow. I’ve got to make it so, just as I am today. Tomorrow will be different, I’m sure.