It’s hard to write sometimes. A lot of times, really, if you’re me. I know that not every single thing a writer produces needs to be spurred by some relentless frenzy of passion, but for myself, it feels like if I’m not writing in a frenzy, with ideas flying through my head just needing to be put to paper, then it feels like I might as well not write at all. It doesn’t just feel inorganic, nor is it that it feels uninspired. It feels like a lie, forcing myself to write. It feels like I cannot say that I well and truly mean every word I’ve typed out, in which case, what was the point? After about a year indoors now, I find myself lacking not only in passion, but also in inspiration. To say I miss the city and the crowded subways and the busy streets would be the understatement of the century. It’s not just the people or the streets or some combination of both, it’s more-so the thoughts they invoke. The highs of getting roles in such a web of people’s lives just by sitting in a certain subway car. The lows of wanting nothing more than an escape, feeling suffocated, or maybe feeling disenchanted. Wherever I find myself, it’s easy to find a muse. It’s easy to want nothing more than to either envelop yourself in everything a place has to offer, or to reject it with every fiber of your being and dream about the places you could be, the things you could’ve been.
For this reason, I would say that quarantine is especially painful. Where one might feel joy and/or suffering out in the world, experiencing any and every possible feeling towards life, the last year has sort of been an absence of that. If happiness were a white and sadness or grief a black, quarantine would be both, but also neither. Not really a type of grey, because grey requires color. More so it would be the lack of any color at all. This analogy is the best way I’ve managed to explain the feeling of no feeling. This entire thing is quite cliché, I know. There’s a reason things become cliché though, no?
Five times have I re-written this and five times have I gotten it wrong. I suppose I’m only writing this because I must write something. Surprisingly, I don’t even have the energy to write some rousing essay on the struggles of the working class in this country or deliver a scathing rebuke of the United States Government. I am, as some would put it, “running on fumes”. Maybe it’s time to try something new.
I’m not much of a storyteller, honestly. I’m very good at telling them, don’t get me wrong. My delivery can be dramatic enough, and I can stay on one train of thought if I’m focused enough. Rather, I’m not very good at crafting narratives, not for very long. I struggle a lot, not at coming up with ideas of where to start, but rather developing places for the story to go. Nothing ever feels right, necessarily. Everything feels forced, in a sense. I’m sure that’s the same for everybody, or every writer at least, and I can’t imagine it’s impossible to overcome. It doesn’t actually need to be impossible to overcome though, as long as it feels that way.
I don’t have anything to end this on, really. Just take care of your loved ones. As long as you try to be the best person you can be, nobody can ask more of you.
I hope this finds everyone well.
Maybe I’ll try writing stories.