I just realized today that I miss knowing a ton of people with blogs. Call me nosy, but it was fun reading about the musings and doings of a lot of my friends, especially those real-life friends who I can’t see regularly due to distance or schedules.
I sometimes feel like an outlier as approaching year nine here. Since my frequency of posts have gone down and I don’t publicize every single time I make a post, some people I know have mistakenly believed that I’ve stopped blogging, especially after I bought the domain and abandoned Live Journal, until I throw up a link about something I feel is very important. Then I only have about nine posts in a month and my readership falls off a cliff again.
I guess the biggest issue I have presently is that I’m still a little in my writer’s block funk. I have the final revision for my novel scribbled out in a notepad but I just don’t feel ready to do it. I have this vague idea of a post I want to write in my head but the words aren’t coming out. Even the photos this month are a little forced. In my head, I’m trying to find the perfect angle to photograph Charlottesville, though, and it’s frustrating me. I am considering heading out to the Blue Ridge Parkway alone on one of my days off with the camera I do have and seeing if anything grabs me.
I was half-joking when I told Joseph Todd this a few weeks ago but I almost want to take up painting instead. I’ve never painted anything before. I want to do something abstract. Like slashes and blotches of color. I feel I would toss out five of them until I was satisfied. It’s very weird.
I sometimes wonder if this is all because, for more than a year now, I haven’t been forced to write something every week. I haven’t gotten through a good book in a while, either. Well, I plowed through Back to Blood a few weeks ago but I’m bogged down in Tenth of December and Jonathan Franzen’s Freedom is taunting me with its unread pages.
I have been in a sort of crisis mode for the past few months and that all but concluded this weekend. I’m wondering if suddenly finding myself in middle class normalcy is going to take me out of this writing funk or if this is the cause.
I need to get over this soon. I have the urge to scream the true ending of my novel to anyone who will listen and that won’t help (although I should tell at least one of the people who edited an early draft). I want to write an esoteric post. I want to friggin’ create.
I want to create.