Losing the energy to write. Maybe laziness. I have thoughts. I even work out details of a Junction spinoff called “River,” but nothing congeals. I write, sometimes long, thoughtful answers to posts in Facebook. Maybe start with some strands.
“I kept coming back to memoir, reminding myself that I was writing my own personal story. I didn’t want to fall into the trap of trying to represent “the movement” or “the pandemic,” because I can’t do that. No one can. It would be hubris to try. As long as I kept it small, I could make it big. As a writer, I started out as a poet and always believed in what William Carlos Williams said about reaching the universal through the particular. I love everyday specificity. And affect. I come to know things through feeling.” from an interview with Jeremiah Moss author of Feral City.
My God. I might be done writing stories. This was my outlet, my evidence to myself that I am worth something.
Everything I think of writing about seems hollow, like the title of an intriguing movie that goes nowhere, lacks plot and significance. Maybe the key is to go minimalist, to strip away preconceptions and expectations. What, in other words, is worth writing about or even noting?
I can see some of the foolishness, ideas that people have that they think are deep, explanatory, or gives them the satisfaction of mentally exploring concepts. The notion of infinity, for example. Gosh, just think about it. Infinity goes on forever. Forever, just imagine.
What crap. The understanding I have of Zen Buddhism keeps me safely away from such nonsense.
