So I clicked the “Write” button. And here I am. I’ve always been able to write well but I kind of lost my mojo, to use a hackneyed cliche. It happened way too long ago when I burnt myself out as a freelancer. I don’t seem to have ever been able to get it back after that. I’ve become afraid recently that I don’t have the ability anymore, that the brain cells that were reserved for that skill have been fried away somehow. Probably too much beer.
As I have gotten older the thoughts and ideas have become more elusive. They tease me. I have a cool thought and then another, and when I try to go back to the first one it is gone. Can’t remember it.
I may be a little negative in my focus.
This is a time in my life when my writing should be at its best. So many things get harder to do well when you’re older. You don’t fit into the job market quite as well and the possibilities seem slimmer. But one thing you can do well is write. You have a deeper reserve of experience from which to draw. You have years of dues paid. You’ve had time to hone your skills. So what am I doing here?
I realized something about myself recently. It’s not flattering. I’m not used to working hard to get what I want. And I may have a tendency to think the world owes me something just because I am “special”. I don’t know how the hell that happened and how it happened without me realizing it until now. So if I get turned down for something or pushed back or rejected, I pout and withdraw instead of shrugging and just working harder. Like my business – it did so well for quite a while without a shit ton of hard work. I mean, I did some work and spent some time building it but I wasn’t killing myself. Then it took a down turn. It slowed way down to a minimum part time job. And I pouted. OK, so I deserve a pout. But then I should have busted my ass to try to make things happen again. But I didn’t. I haven’t.
I had a relational difficulty at an organization I used to be part of. After that happened I just walked away. I had been in leadership. I had been recognized for some of my accomplishments. But as soon as I hit a challenge in which I felt personally slighted and I felt ashamed of my response to that slight, I left.
When I write about painful things, it stresses my body. I can feel it. When I am happy and distracted in life, I feel great physically. No aches or pains, no digestive issues, no fatigue. But when I muck about with memories or future worries that are emotionally painful, my body responds in kind.
What can I write about that brings me joy instead of pain? Why am I drawn to write about things that bring me pain? Do I dislike myself? Why?
Many roads have led to pain. Things that I thought were going to be joyful have ended in disappointment. But one must continue on. My life has been more painful than some and much happier than many others.
Sometimes I think I am weak-minded. I need to do some serious work on truly, finally, letting go of this stone of pain. I need to work hard for the things I want and not just expect them to come to me. Stop sitting around and waiting for life to come to me.
I don’t want to be stuck anymore.