On Not Writing

I’ve been told it’s time to blog again. My fans (all three of them) expect me to write regularly. My son griped that I hadn’t completed (or even started in earnest) my great American novel yet. Easy for him to say, earning a master’s degree in Creative Writing and producing a manuscript or screenplay every year since. Mostly, my readers are miffed because I justified moving away and buying a place near the ocean so I could focus on writing, and I’m not writing! I tried the usual excuses for the absence of text: I work, the kids, I’m sooo busy, too tired, not feeling well…too pathetic is what it really is.

Writing for me is akin to cutting a piece of my lung out for no reason. It hurts like hell, it becomes difficult to breathe, then I experience intense levels of fear and dread, and must find a distraction. Picture this, I wrote the first two sentences, got up, and poured a cup of cold coffee leftover from this morning. No, I didn’t heat it in the microwave — that’s disgusting. I returned to my desk, wrote part of the next sentence, changed two words in the previous sentence, grabbed my pocketbook off the kitchen table in search of Altoids, popped two cinnamon candies in my mouth, and sat down again.

I thought about a quote by Gene Fowler, looked it up, and decided to use it in this essay because sometimes it is easier to use the words of others than think up one’s own. I bet I could write a novella consisting entirely of lines written by various authors. Who am I kidding? I can’t put together a single-page essay, let alone a novella. I’d get stuck on the opening sentence. Now excuse me while I pour a glass of water. Incidentally, that was not a timewaster, really, because H2O is essential and helps stave off the signs of aging.

Maybe the fear of growing old hinders my writing. My therapist once asked what I wanted to get from our sessions, and I said to age gracefully. I don’t know what aging gracefully means exactly, but I recognize it when I see it. And it doesn’t help that Dad had Alzheimer’s; could that be the reason? Well, if it is, then I should get on it because time and genetic predisposition are not on my side. I’m not sure what causes such a fear of the twilight years, but you’d think life experiences could only help one write compelling stories. Ooh, kids are walking across the lawn on their way home from school; wait while I give them some leftover Halloween treats. This cottagey little writer’s retreat is lovely, but there hasn’t been one trick-or-treater since I moved here. That’s three years if you’re counting.

There are lots of senior citizens in my Florida community; seniors and hurricanes — not enough to make me want to leave, you understand — although all the pro-Trump signs do give me pause. I occasionally think of relocating. I’m almost certain Canada’s cold climate is out of the question, but for something warmer, I’d seriously consider San Miguel de Allende. Full of artists and writers, and who knows, it could be wonderful. That is until I sit there unable to write anything worthy of sharing in the expat writers’ group, let alone publish it, and then the fear rises all over again. Which brings me back to the present moment. Gene Fowler wrote, “Writing is easy: All you do is sit staring at a blank sheet of paper until drops of blood form on your forehead.” No truer words…