In a bit of writing dead spot these days. I've had a couple of poems in me I've tried to get out but they fall flat on the page. I've been trying to get a short story shaped but I get stuck, even though I know exactly what want to write. I was again looking at writing from ten years ago. I'm a better writer now but I'm not as brave as I used to be. I don't take the risks on the page anymore. I don't know why. I don't know what I'm afraid of; they're only words on paper, right? Ugh. I feel as if each year that goes by some of the fire is extinguished by something, I don't know what. Maybe cumulative disappointments, lack of faith, or just that sometimes I don't even know why I write. But I do. And I try. That's what makes the difference in the end. I can't even imagine not trying because at the end of the day I love writing. I don't care if I get published, I don't care if anyone reads what I write, I fucking love the act of it. I have to remind myself of that.
I've chosen to take on a lot more solitude. I don't see it as negative, though often it can be lonely. I'm spending a lot of time in long silences. I go back to the Rilke passage I transcribed in June and it makes more and more sense. ...artists: poets or painters, composers or architects, fundamentally lonely spirits who, in turning to Nature, put the eternal above the transitory, that which is most profoundly based on law above that which is fundamentally ephemeral, and who, since they cannot persuade Nature to concern herself with then, see their task to be the understanding of Nature, so that they may take their place somewhere in her great design.
I Wanna Be Adored