After reading a few other blogs, whose authors possess more discipline and skill than I likely retain, I came to a small – very small – epiphany. Part of my inability to make myself write when I want and how I want springs from what I would politely label efficiency, but what generally translates to spazziness.<\/p>\n
Like many of my peers, I have a notably short attention span. In one sense, it makes me a harsh and incredibly effective critic; if something does not hold my attention, I know that it is not something of particular note. In another sense, it can make me look bat-shit insane. Instead of merely sitting comfortably in my chair and enjoying a film, I shift and go for snacks and twitch and think of other movies that might play in my head during the dull parts of this one. I imagine, in media res, how I would rewrite the dialogue or direct the actor in another take of the same shot. Sometimes, I even play costume designer.<\/p>\n
Similarly, if there is even a momentary lapse in action in a video game, or indeed my coding work, I furiously rub my hands together, scratch my scalp, or any other number of ticks that would embarrass even a victim of Tourette’s. Am I a reflection of our times? Without a doubt. Why, just today, when I have an important deadline, I cannot bring myself to concentrate since I have nothing good to play on the computer’s DVD player. I have come to the point where I require overstimulation to function.<\/p>\n
And this keeps me from writing. You see, most writing brings with it a sort of ponderous serenity, moments of furious finger-flashing on keys interspersed with periods of inactivity that bludgeon my mind into distraction. When I am struck with inspiration so forceful that even the beating dol-drums of this lethargy cannot restrain me, I manage to create in a threshing frenzy of paragraphs. But chapters or stories or, for that matter, pages are far from my natural state.<\/p>\n
I fight with the accusation that I am lazy as a writer. Instead, I think I strive to capture that moment of inspirado without leaving it to the entropy of revision and continuation. Thus am I left with countless vignettes, hinting subtly at stories which I have long since forgotten and poems whose beginnings match neither the tone nor subject of their lavish endings.<\/p>\n
Maturity, perhaps, is what I lack. I would certainly agree with the notion that writers age like wine*. Where I have the most growing-up to do is in taking my time, realizing that I needn’t hammer home my entire point within a few paragraphs. Most writing is not like marketing, my “chosen” profession, or like blog entries where readers get this far in and begin looking up synonyms for “rant.”<\/p>\n
My mind, due to the stresses of life in America in the 21st Century, is simply not still. I struggle with this in more than just writing. And although my very nature believes that stillness is the wellspring from which the mind and spirit drink, I fear my life is just not possible at that speed. So, unless inspired, I feel like writing is merely wasting what precious little time I have, both in terms of simple free time and in the grander sense of mortality.<\/p>\n
It is not my only stumbling block. My tools are rusty, and my confidence is low. Even my more inspired work seems to fade in retrospection and when I make daring attempts to write through the obstacles of apathy and dreariness, I find the work no longer pleasing enough to pursue. I do not mean to be bleak or greedy, but honestly what’s the point? What’s my reward? There are many people out there who pursue writing more fervently and devoutly. Am I so vain that I believe my talent so unique to circumvent the need for all that work?<\/p>\n