I first wrote the post below a few years back for the Writer's Vineyard. The weather today isn't rain and ice, as it was on the day the post was written, more sun and cold. Still, the sentiment still holds and--some days at least-- it sums it well how I often feel about needing to write a blog
The view from my garret window . This Quotidian Life
It’s the Wednesday before this blog goes live. I’m sitting in my office trying to dream up an idea for the post. So far, I’ve managed to drink an entire pot of coffee. I’ve examined the tiny spot on my nail and wondered if it’s a symptom of some strange disease that will eventually result in finger amputation or a deficiency in my diet that will cause rickets. I’ve watched the mail truck stop by the mailbox before driving on.
I’ve begun the post with two different topics, deciding each time that I was on the wrong track. In both cases, I wrote out a paragraph, crossed it out, wrote another and then crumpled the paper and aimed for the waste basket by the window. I missed both shots. If I decide this current musing is waste-basket worthy, I’ll get a third shot. It’s a high percentage shot over the printer. I’ll probably miss it as well.
What I’m telling you is that I have nothing. No ideas. Nada. The absolute and unequivocal irony here is that if I were writing fiction this wouldn't be a problem. I have more ideas for books and novellas than I have hours and days and weeks to shape them into stories. Honestly, I have a notebook full of ideas. At least twenty story starters incubate in a file as short paragraphs, single pages or a single line, just waiting for my pen to catch up with them.
Readers will sometimes ask me where I get my ideas. The simple answer is that ideas are everywhere. I can’t go through a day without tripping over at least one story premise.
And yet. When it comes to blogging I’m a basket case. I’m staring into a terrible big black hole. A psychologist would probably have a field day examining my blog dysfunction.
I think I know the cause. The fact of the matter is that writing or reading about my real life is about as interesting as watching paint dry. Take today, for instance. The weather is what’s commonly known in my part of the world as a ‘wintry mix’. Wintry mix sounds nice, like something yummy you’d serve in a bowl at a cocktail party. But wintry mix is not yummy. Wintry mix is snow and sleet and cold rain. The snow banks have turned to mush. There are deep puddles which soak feet in ice water if you’re not careful where you step. It means staying indoors, in my little office and watching the mail truck splash as it goes from box to box in my neighborhood.
If I write about my life today, here’s what it would contain. A gallon of coffee. Slush and puddles. And a blog post that isn't going to write itself.
It’s the Wednesday before this blog goes live. I’m sitting in my office trying to dream up an idea for the post. So far, I’ve managed to drink an entire pot of coffee. I’ve examined the tiny spot on my nail and wondered if it’s a symptom of some strange disease that will eventually result in finger amputation or a deficiency in my diet that will cause rickets. I’ve watched the mail truck stop by the mailbox before driving on.
I’ve begun the post with two different topics, deciding each time that I was on the wrong track. In both cases, I wrote out a paragraph, crossed it out, wrote another and then crumpled the paper and aimed for the waste basket by the window. I missed both shots. If I decide this current musing is waste-basket worthy, I’ll get a third shot. It’s a high percentage shot over the printer. I’ll probably miss it as well.
What I’m telling you is that I have nothing. No ideas. Nada. The absolute and unequivocal irony here is that if I were writing fiction this wouldn't be a problem. I have more ideas for books and novellas than I have hours and days and weeks to shape them into stories. Honestly, I have a notebook full of ideas. At least twenty story starters incubate in a file as short paragraphs, single pages or a single line, just waiting for my pen to catch up with them.
Readers will sometimes ask me where I get my ideas. The simple answer is that ideas are everywhere. I can’t go through a day without tripping over at least one story premise.
And yet. When it comes to blogging I’m a basket case. I’m staring into a terrible big black hole. A psychologist would probably have a field day examining my blog dysfunction.
I think I know the cause. The fact of the matter is that writing or reading about my real life is about as interesting as watching paint dry. Take today, for instance. The weather is what’s commonly known in my part of the world as a ‘wintry mix’. Wintry mix sounds nice, like something yummy you’d serve in a bowl at a cocktail party. But wintry mix is not yummy. Wintry mix is snow and sleet and cold rain. The snow banks have turned to mush. There are deep puddles which soak feet in ice water if you’re not careful where you step. It means staying indoors, in my little office and watching the mail truck splash as it goes from box to box in my neighborhood.
If I write about my life today, here’s what it would contain. A gallon of coffee. Slush and puddles. And a blog post that isn't going to write itself.
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