"Can I ask you something?" asks my friend Spike via IM last week. "I don't want to offend you, but if you want to be a writer full time, how come sometimes you don't have anything to write about on the blog?"
"It has nothing to do with being a writer," I say. "If I don't get to spend any time alone, I don't get to think. And if I don't get to think, I've got nothing to write."
It's beyond frustrating - I'm on the train, Mac all warm and ready in my lap and . . .nothing.
Nothing to say. Two days in a row.
Good news: Jim's in Pittsburgh tonight so HedyBlog will return tomorrow.
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I am listening to: The Weepies - All That I Want
I am reading: West of Kabul, East of New York
And I am: Craving space
3 weeks ago
1 comments:
I am eagerly awaiting your return.
I think that all writers who can't be writers full time have the same issues. I know that I have many many ideas in my head that need proper care and fertilization to turn into a full fledged "story", but the energy needed to fertilize my stories has lately been devoted to puppies, kids, clients, siblings, friends, etc, etc. And I feel like a dick saying to any of them "Sorry, I can't {insert request here}. This is when I need to plant my idea garden." I mean, really, who the hell do I think I am? Henry David Thoreau? (Actually, he lived a pretty solitary life, so, um ... no.)
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