What’s wrong with me? I can’t find the motivation anymore. I sit in a chair staring at the walls. Am I too old to do this anymore? Am I depressed? Why is this happening at the worst possible time, as the money is running out. Soon, I will be in the red and there is no guarantee I can find a corporate job again, having been away from the workplace for nine months.
Maybe that’s it—trying to sculpt something becomes such a perfectionist task that I bog down. It’s been taken from something done from passion with passion for passion to something that has to be whittled to such a refined state that it loses the spark for which it was done in the first place. To get it to that commercial and sterile state steals the joy in the craft. I can’t find the determination to do it.
I’ve done it in the past, work through this tedious state—the honing and muscling of words into shape—but right now I need to find the passion, the passion that drove me to begin these works, this life, at their conception. Why did I start A Man Looks? I needed to voice my anxiety of getting older. Why did I start A—? I needed to explore one’s desire to be special versus being a friend. Why did I start that other one? I needed to bring healing to myself.
This feels good, though. Reminds me of former days when I would slam the keys on my phone writing, sometimes three four thousand words a day, all passion, all heart, all instinct. This feels good, and maybe I will do this for a few days, quit worrying about a self-imposed book deadline that causes me stress that I no longer enjoy what I am doing. Yes, this feels good. Reminds me of who I am and why I do what I do. I could come back to this, happily.