Wednesday, February 23, 2005

Flatulence

Most of this week I've spent mulling over ideas and writing them down. I'm sick to death of my own voice. When I read over things I've written I feel sheepish, at best; physically ill and repulsed, at worst. I'm mentally exhausted. I sat down to read a book this afternoon and promptly fell asleep.
Most disconcerting in this is the fact that I have mostly been writing as part of an effort of discipline: writing daily because I enjoy it and want to do it.
I know writing is hard work but I never expected I'd want to disavow everything I write.
It feels like a collosial waste of time and effort, culminating in too much vapor.
I wonder if career writers ever feel this way. What do I honestly have to say that is worth coaxing into words and lines?
I need to go wash my dishes or talk to someone with something really significant to say (a child perhaps?).
Whose genius idea was it to start up a blog???

1 comment:

Rachael King said...

Thanks, Laura. I don't think I'm worried about perfection as much as I feel sort of empty and spent. It isn't that I don't think I could (eventually) get the words to sounding nice, it's that I'm tired of the words themselves. Try capturing in words the smell of a baby's head or the pain of separation or that elusive element in love by which you know that you will always love, until world ends, and even then. Some do it better than others, but none so well that it is not inadequate.