The last couple of days I have felt categorically unmoved by the thought of writing. I want to stick out my tongue and blow a big fat raspberry to it. I want to be five years old again and be acceptably young enough to throw a temper tantrum because “I absolutely do not want to have to do any stupid writing”.
I have no idea what is behind this malcontent with my ambition of late. I don’t feel so much ambivalent as I do disdain. I suppose it’s just a phase: perhaps the demon on my shoulder has just gotten the better of me recently and I’m shrugging off any underlying desire because it’s scary to think that I could actually do this, I could be a writer.
I don’t know. It might not have anything to do with the attempt to fulfil a lifelong dream, it could be entirely connected to external factors that I haven’t quite connected the dots for as yet. To be honest I’m feeling a little bit bored of life as a whole at the moment. Books I try and read hold no sway over my attention: I don’t seem to be capable of suspending my disbelief that one character grew up in an abusive household, while another was told on her thirteenth birthday (quite plainly) that she was adopted. The storylines seem conveniently complex and automatic. I find myself unable to build up any corresponding images in my mind so that, rather than come to life, the words remain flat on the page and disappoint me.
Whereas a few days ago I might have suggested I could do better, now I don’t seem to want to. If it can all go so wrong so as to cause an intrepid reader like myself to discard a novel before even reaching Chapter Three, is there any point? Perhaps it is my fear of failure that is holding me back, but similarly it is a terror that, once again, I’ll never be able to complete what I have begun and like so many others in the world, my manuscript will languish unfinished and unread in a drawer for the rest of time.
I need to wait for this malaise to pass, yet I can also admit that by succumbing to it I am losing my grip on the ability to write habitually. Should I surrender to this mood, and metaphorically lay down my pen? Or should I fight and aim to be stronger than it and find the courage to write on regardless?
My challenge was to write one sentence a day. One sentence a day, that is all. Am I now so defeated that this cannot be attemped? Surely I can squeeze out enough creativity to form ONE SENTENCE…if not, can I really, truly, consider myself that writer I so desire to be?