Today is a national “holiday” for some people around me. If you know my stance on nationalism in general (which I doubt you do, unless I know you personally, in which case there’s little chance you’re even reading this), it comes without saying that I’m not terribly enthusiastic about any kind of celebration that restricts itself to one little portion of the world. Much less so when that little portion of the world is afflicted by so many painfully blatant problems and holes in the system as the one I am in right now.
But enough about that. I didn’t start this post to whine about reality when the issues I would have talked about can be plainly seen by anyone with clear eyes and a sensible mind. That, and the fact that me and reality don’t exactly get along. Even when thoughts like these are troublesome enough as to cross my mind more often than I’d like them to, I prefer to think that this little blogspace is about writing.
As of right now– well, more like a few days ago, to be precise– I’ve managed to drag myself out of the excuse of starting uni as a stunt to my writing, an as such have managed to more accurately identify that I am in something most creatives would describe as a ‘rut’. Said problem is far from being an inactivity rut, however, as with the discovery of a lovely website called Duotrope (thanks in no small part to my friend and fellow creative Kit), a staggeringly wide variety of, shall we say, reasons to write have come into my awareness. There’s certainly a very special kind of motivation to be found there, so I can at least I can safely say that a lack of potential drive is not the problem– rather, I suddenly find myself with a drought in my personal well of ideas.
Granted, the amount of stories that I have not only taken the time to draft out and edit, but that I am also quite satisfied with, is quite minimal. Still, I should imagine there should still be room for a greater volume of fantastical accounts to sprout forth from the back of my mind, and yet, I have been afflicted with that terrible feeling that dictates that every single word of fiction that comes forth from my fingertips is doomed to be an undesirable, mediocre piece of garbage invariably destined for the closest paper shredder.
And yet, in my esteemed circle of writers, I have come to know of a few that have managed to persevere throughout what I can imagine are times like these without giving in to the terribly potent urge to sink into a rut like this. From the way I’ve been feeling lately, I believe it no exaggeration to say that one can get tired of being tired. Perhaps some of them surrendered themselves to a rut like this for some time before they realised what a troublesome feeling such a standstill can be?
I can only imagine. Perhaps, just perhaps, this is a sign that it is time to revert to a more elementary brand of fiction– that which not only disregards the unpleasantness of reality, but makes a wanton attack against its very principles.
The “Weird Tale”, if you will.