I’ve been sitting at my professional site for an hour waiting for the words to come. I’m … blank. Blank is not a good thing and certainly not where I want to be, nor what I need.
But I am.
I’m not sure when it started, but being blank when you’re a writer means there is just — nothing. My thoughts have escaped me and I can quite literally sit for hours, looking out the window, doing nothing. It’s like white noise, but worse. I wish it were some sort of Zen meditative state, but instead there is nothing but emptiness and that makes me feel incredibly lonely. The loneliness is palpable.
Writers throughout time have been driven mad by this feeling. I’m pretty sure it’s what has caused them go down the path of destruction and self-harm. While I can promise I am not on that path (my husband is a great support) it does make me wonder about all of the writer’s we’ve read biographical information about and their lives off the pages they wrote.
But am I blank, or am I lonely. Is is the blank feeling causing the feeling of loneliness? Or is it the loneliness causing the blankness? I don’t know.
At this point, I don’t even know if I have it in me to feel it out and think it all through and that frightens me. Sitting here, typing these characters on the screen, some of the feelings I have are coming out, and I’ll carry on with them as long as they here.
In another world, off of this blog I’ve had for a decade or so, I’m what you call a “real blogger.” But I’m not really a real blogger. Because I’m a writer. And bloggers don’t like hearing that you’re not a blogger, you’re a writer. It is who I am. My name is Lisa and I am a writer.
I had a much deeper thought on that, but had to stop and take it out. That’s not material for the internet, but for my journal. Social media may also have something to do with how I feel. I could care less about promoting myself online, because I am very tired of the barrage of advertisements thrown my way in the form of 140 characters or less. While it’s necessary for the paid work I do, I’m also bombarded with sadness and other people’s problems. As someone who is a textbook empath, I feel everything. And I’m pretty sure I am completely drained.
So I come back here, to you, old faithful, and I talk about the art, craft, and feelings centered around writing. For now, that is all I need. I’m thankful you’re here.