~ Charles Bukowski
The spirit has definitely waned, I lack form, I am formless. I am in a creative void, beyond bastardly writer's block, this is a void of black hole-like proportions... HUGE. I am cut to the core, I am questioning why I pretend to play the game at all. What is the point?
Once a week or so, after I tell someone I am a writer, I get asked what I write, or what kind of a writer I am. I usually begin my response with a um, well I have a diploma in journalism (ooo, ahh, how interesting), I haven't been published, it is rough out there, yada, yada, meh. The whole damn thing reminds me of when I was a vegetarian, I was asked and asked and asked again why I didn't eat meat. At first it was easy. I would say something along the lines that I was against the domestication and slaughter of animals for food. Yes, that was me, I was one of those pretentious, wanna be hippies (the first step is admitting it), thank gawd my love of meat and need for protein won the day. That Double Mozza Burger from A & W, nothing ever tasted better. Drool.
Wait, wait, does that mean I am giving up on writing because I find it pretentious, because I can't fit myself into a neat box? Nah, I simply feel a little cornered right now. I am worried that writing is nothing more than a hobby, or worse, a bad habit. I worry that, I simply write for fun, that I will never be able to make a living as a writer. I am suffering from a crisis of confidence and it sucks.
But worry not. I will not be stuffed into a box... no way, never! The way I write, the why and how I write, hell I can't really intelligently answer those questions. I just do. I write because it is a biological imperative, it's like burping, like farting, a piss or a shit. If I don't write, I might explode. Ewwww, messy.