The Meat of the Matter

Writer's Block

A few days ago I was desperate for a post so I tossed up an old poem. I realized after doing so that I had written the poem nine years ago. Brian and I were bouncing short e-mails back and forth and I realized that I hadn't written a single poem in five years. Then I realized I haven't written a short story in about four years. I am now sad that those few years ago I made this statement: "No one gives a shit about short stories or poetry." And with the toss of my hand, I ended all such endeavors. I trashed them like those old Disneyland E-Tickets. True, I've been working on a novel, but it's highly commercial and I'll be lucky if I finish it before I die. And yes there's even my blog, but in the last weeks I got nothin' ... nuthin'! I've never understood what the big deal about writer's block was. Well, now I do. The thing about a writer is that when this happens, he begins questioning the value of his own existence. " ... So, are those brief times with my family and loved ones enough to sustain the monotonous hours of corporate money-grubbing? ... What happened to the empassioned man who would write poems just for the sake of writing them? ... Have I become like the artists I criticize? Like George Lucas and U2, who did good work when they were younger, but have been spoiled with age? ... The novel I'm writing now is shit compared to what I used to write. It's probably never going to publish ... " And on, and on, and on. I'll give $100 to the first person that can give me back the inspiration I had 15 years ago.