The Weather

There is a strong possibility I've lost my mojo. My writing mojo, that is.


This happens every once in a while and I'd have to describe it as...as...ya see? I can't even describe it. They say you have to keep writing, right, get stuff down, even when its tripe...But I always have this moment where I think, "Nope. That's it. I knew I couldn't write for shit. I have nothing to say. I'm boring and all I am going to do is bore the hell out of myself and possibly others. What's the point? You didn't REALLY think you could do this did you?"

Now, I realise that noone reads this blog except those I coerce or bribe. Which does make it a little easier, I suppose. Still, when I think about writing about my co-workers or family or friends I feel I might censor myself so as not to hurt anyone's feelings. Censorship is death to a writer, especially if it's self imposed.

Maybe it's my own feelings I'm scared of bruising. It all just revolves around the same old shit I'm used to. I worry about what people think of me. So goddamned much so that I feel paralyzed. Why do I care? Nobody reads this anyway! But it's always been like that. Probably stems from my mother reading my diary when I was younger. And didn't someone say never write anything down that you don't want someone else reading? Hard to get yourself out of slagging someone off when it's on paper, let alone when it's broadcast on the net.

There is no doubt that I need countless hours of therapy to get over this. Or maybe just a big slap upside the head. I still have the self esteem of a fourteen year old. A very insecure fourteen year old.

When I'm not staring at a blank page or a blank computer screen it's easy for me to think of myself as a writer. The tiniest details in my life are catalogued and dissected to prepare them for the written page. And then I find a web page where the drummer of my old band has written a bloody book and I want to sit in a corner and cry like a child. I've read his stuff...it's craptastic! But he did it. Yes, with very little success, but at least he DID it. I have no such claim. I start it and then invariably stop. Because I get scared or bored. Fear and boredom. Fuck fear and loathing, Hunter! Boredom is the killer. Boredom and routine.


I said I wanted to stay in all weekend. It's been raining here for days and the damp gray made me want to hole up and do little but watch television and talk about nothing in particular. But then it occured to me that it seems to be all I do. I get angry at myself for not writing as much as I should but once the weekend comes or the day releases me from my soul crushing job, I have nothing left. I can't expect him to understand. I tell myself sometimes it's because he's a scientist and that he has difficulty with my haphazard ways. Perhaps it's that I keep trying to adhere to some kind of life I'm not sure I can live. I don't know if I can when my mind is always swimming with puzzle pieces for this grand plan for a book. Maybe being me, being a writer, is something I wish I could forget. As if it could be something I can un-learn.

But it wasn't anything I learned in the first place! It has always been like a bodily function, a reflex I have no control over. And maybe that's it. I have to find a way to conrtol this beast, this nagging, that convinces me I am capable enough to make something of it. I desperately want to believe that I have the brio to pursue my real dreams, but of late I'm reminded of how insecure my nature is. Every time I think of my failures at school and my paralysis in writing and singing I hear my mother say, as she did, "Maybe you should go to secretarial school..." Can I really hope for more? Or am I just some tired gobshite who'll end up regretting that I never took a chance, never tried?