It’s been a week since I wrote on this blog.
It bothered me a lot.
Some days I don’t know why I have it at all. Other than that I have had “a blog” for what, almost two decades?
But I don’t know what it’s for. I like writing, but I never feel like I’m doing something that is reading people or meaning something to anyone other than myself. And I have this bugbear that makes me feel like everything I do has to impact people and slash or make me money.
So why write?
The realization that you might not have something worthwhile to give or you “don’t have that novel in you” is harrowing.
I don’t know. I think that is the scariest thing as a thirty five year old white man who in all regards is “doing okay” but doesn’t feel it.
I don’t know. And I’m scared. I know I’m luck enough to feel this and not be in complete dire straits. But still.
I don’t know.