W.B. Yeats speaks to the greatest wish of all writers – and eloquently so.
All the words I gather,
And all the words that I write,
Must spread out their wings untiring,
And never rest in their flight,
Till they come where your sad, sad heart is,
And sing to you in the night,
Beyond where the waters are moving,
Storm darkened or starry bright
W.B. Yeats
London, January 1892
How long until the shine wears off? At what point does your blog stop being viable and become a chore? Or does it go through cycles, prone to the whims of your life just as you are?
I remember being upset, maybe even angry, when bloggers I loved decided to throw in the towel because posting and maintaining the blog was taking away from their real writing, their real life. Knowing full well it was what the bloggers needed at the time, I still selfishly didn’t want to let them go.
Then in a post I wrote two weeks ago, the last time I posted on a Thursday, I lamented the pull of personal writing vs. blog writing. That I was tapped out once I attended to one, with no inspiration left for the other. I could feel the burn. I understood the reasoning of those others I hadn’t wanted to take a hiatus.
Plus, with life being life – where the living of it gets in the way of, you know, living it – uninterrupted time to sit and think and create is at a premium. Usually I don’t get past ‘sit’ without wanting to close my eyes.
I know, lots of whining, when I could have been actually creating – and no, this is not my blosignation. I am nothing if not a stubborn mule. I have set my mind to a blog schedule and I will get back on it, come hell or high stress levels.
As always, it’s a matter of finding that sweet spot, that slice of solitude and peace – where words come easily and self-expression is crystal clear and empowering. Can I get an AMEN?
Do you find your muse is very specific? And stingy? She will not grant amazing blog entries and inspired chapters simultaneously. It is one or the other my friend. The imagination, brain, stamina is easily overtaxed. One cannot expect too much out of any one or all. Pick your battles. Pin one on your shirt; shove the other in the drawer. Either write for obscurity or build a platform for a work that won’t exist. Ah, but there’s the rub. Where are the benefactors? The sponsors? The insanely rich and generous who will pay me to sit at home and write the great American novel? It’s so much easier to whine about it than actually go write. . .
What is not up for dibs for a writer?
The conversations, the witty remark, the anecdote.
The errant animal who roamed not your village.
The marbles you did not collect.
The talking-to you should have given.
How much is artistic license and how much is misrepresentation?
Anything marked as fiction can be deemed coincidental.
There is also the power of taking something pedestrian and elevating it,
making the commonplace extraordinary, making what should have been become alive.
If it’s all for the sake of art, anything goes.
Isn’t that what Cole Porter would say?
Image from Mary DeMuth
Chopping Potatoes 