Writing and I have always had one of those “when it’s good it’s great, but when it’s bad it’s non-existent” types of relationships. After a pretty solid binge of awesome the last two or three months I find myself struggling to remember what it is like to have the motivation to sit down and let the words flow. This is nothing new. In many ways I have come to expect it. Something is different this time, though. I have been struck with a fierce determination to chase inspiration rather than sit back and wait for it to me.
Each time this has happened in the past – and there have been many times – I worry that inspiration will not return. Worse than that, I might not even recognize it. Every times it comes back and we begin this whirlwind of productivity I breath a sigh of relief that it found me. I become increasingly worried that the next time inspiration leaves it will never return. That worry has finally reached the point in which I simply cannot let it walk away uncontested.
In the long run I think that is probably for the best.
And so I find myself staring at my computer. Coffee is humming through my veins like it was fed through an IV and a calming beer is at my side (ya know, so I’m thoroughly dehydrated tonight). I may have fallen out of love with writing momentarily, but I am determined to sit in this chair and run my fingers over the keyboard until I start to warm to it once more.
The fact that I have been working on my manuscript for nearly four years now weighs heavily on my mind, as does my ever increasing responsibilities at work (where I drafted this initially, rather than doing the work needed to meet my 8am deadline tomorrow morning). Even more significant are the echoes of an encounter I had this weekend with an individual who unknowingly took repeated swipes at the futility of something so frivolous as a literature degree or aspirations towards a career as a writer. I cannot deny that he is right in the grand scheme of things. Lord knows my Literature degree is sitting uselessly in a nice frame on the wall and the odds of writing full-time are ever decreasing. But that almost makes it worse and I’ll be damned if I don’t want to prove him wrong if only because he unknowingly shit all over my dreams.
The beautiful thing about this writing thing is that it is far cheaper than therapy. As is almost always the case when I come to my blog to air these thoughts – a dangerous thing – I find the answer to my question somewhere near the end of the post. Today’s answer? Sometimes you have to find the motivation on your own. Sometimes it takes someone, unwittingly or otherwise, cutting you down just hard enough to get pissed off and leap back up with a vengeance. Other times it is a combination of the two and you just have to realize you’re doing something more to prove it to yourself than anyone else.
Yeah, I think that is some good stuff there. I’ll leave it at that. Time to knock a month’s worth of dust off the manuscript and get back to work.
Until next time, keep your chin up and your pen on the paper.