It’s been a month since my last post. (That sounds very formal and confessional, doesn’t it?) It’s been exactly a month. I have lots of good excuses. I’ve been busy… I’ve been out of town… I’m focusing on other things… But. Here’s the thing:
I don’t really feel like writing lately.
(Is there a more frightening sentence in all of language?)
My friend Jeff blogged about a similar feeling once (on my birthday, turns out), coining the term “Creanxiety” to describe the particular anxiety of creative folks (or, the particular creativity of anxious people?…).
(And, yes, I’m pretty sure he coined it. His blog is google hit #1.)
Creanxiety: the uncomfortableness that results from not being able to express what’s inside to the outside. The feeling of wearing a shirt that’s just-too-small. All day.
And that shirt is your whole life.
So, I don’t really feel like writing lately.
This is the drop in the well that never makes a splash. You lean in closer, ears aching for a sound. But there isn’t one, no matter how hard you listen. You wonder, How long is this going to continue? You’re afraid to wonder, Will I always be in this nowhere-place?
There are a handful of you lovely people out there who have told me how you enjoy reading this old thing. When I hear this, I am always grateful, so I say thank you. But I usually also tell you, “I enjoy it, but I don’t do it enough…”
That’s not really an apology. It’s a cry for help.
Since I don’t really feel like writing lately.
For a writer, that’s like saying, “I’m dying here.” And I mean that. With all the un-ironic, meta-emo self-awareness I can muster.
Now is the time to lay hands on and pray. Now is the time to bring casseroles and cold cuts. Now is the time to talk in hushed tones, urgent and concerned.
Now is the time for the drop to hit bottom.
Let’s all hope it makes a sound.