RULES: Once you've been tagged, you are supposed to write a note with 25 random things, facts, habits, or goals about you. At the end, choose 25 people to be tagged. You have to tag the person who tagged you. If I tagged you, it's because I want to know more about you.
(To do this, go to “notes” under tabs (+) on your profile page, paste these instructions in the body of the note, type your 25 random things, tag 25 people (in the right hand corner of the app) then click publish.)
I used to think being bored with my writing signaled a higher cause. Now I think it's because I have nothing to say.
I'm not sure. Perhaps every second one of these will be about writing. It has been my preoccupation of late as I cannot get it together. At least, I find it difficult in ways now I found natural before. I have said, and still believe, writing is a mental process. One need not put pen to paper to improve writing as a skill. All of that can happen in the mind and the act is just the final proof. It would seem then that I have a mental block working against the process. Or perhaps the process itself is not conducive to my natural mental state.
Either/or my mind is working against my intent. It has hurt my feelings. I eat chocolate bar.
I am disinterested in what I write, the content of what is written. Once, as the title suggests, I believed in a cause I had yet to formalise, a fourth dimension to explore with words. It was characterised by a feeling pulling me in a direction like how a compass points north. I understood the direction I needed to go but not the ultimate destination. Only that it would not require conventional, some might say fundamental, story techniques. I believed characters were unnecessary. And plot. And dialogue. These were just the hooks used to hang the coat. The coat itself is something else, something like truth.
I still like how that sounds, it swings romantic, though I am not so sold on the idea any more. At least, I feel, it may not be for me. Whatever vigour is necessary, and some amount is certainly required, I may not have. The mental agility, the alertness, the intense longing for truth all belong in front of the light source. All focus must be on them to perform without hesitation and with speeds instinctive and unusual. It may be I want to just sit for the rest of my life, to check my e-mail and travel once a year. It may be the great effort may not pay due dividends and the toll, the waste, may be equally great.
I asked myself recently would a novel produced by investing one hour of every day for twenty-five years justify the time spent writing it. Would half of my life equal not just a great novel, but the greatest novel? Or would the task itself, so grand and noble, be worth the effort alone?
I cannot decide.