Funky Writing, White Boy
An apology – to you and me. I haven’t written much here lately (thankfully Cath has had pictures and thoughts to post).
My excuse: I’ve been in a bit of a writer’s funk lately.
Writer’s funks are ironic, because the only real cure for a writer in a funk is to write.
Many famous literati, contrary to my last statement, have promoted the idea that alcohol is the restorative for a funked author. Right. In the same way that channel surfing inspires me. Escape, sure. Treatment? Maybe not.
It has been mostly the blog that I’ve been avoiding, where I tend to get more personal and honest about my thoughts.
Perhaps it is the looming anniversary of my brothers death; or my newest project feeling overwhelming; or reviewing too many scripts from other people (some convincing me that I’m not as good of a writer, so why bother; others displaying how much crap is out there, and who am I to think I’m different; and still others, probably closer in truth to me, that are good but not great… how inspired can one be striving toward “good but not great?”); or maybe I’m just in a funk.
It’s not like I am unknown for funkdom. Mope for a day or two, and break the cycle by writing in twelve hour bursts.
Some of my better work has come from such writing.
Doesn’t make the funk feel any better. Nor the idea that I’m now justifying the funk itself, and still avoiding writing.
So I’m writing mostly to explore why I am not writing.
Yeah, the irony of that isn’t lost on me either.
Just my thoughts,