What do you call a man who neglects his duties to pursue his own personal interests?
Irresponsible. Selfish. Maybe a little bit fat.
What do you call a man who neglects his personal interests to pursue his other duties?
Miserable. Dull. Also kind of fat.
I’m trying to find a middle ground for my interests and my responsibilities, but am finding less and less time to accomplish this end. My day job, the illustrious food-delivery service, takes up a fair amount of my time, but does very little to tire me intellectually. That is what I consider a good thing, and God knows I’ve had enough trouble with that sort of problem in the past.
My other pursuits, such as my band(s), and my personal life take up another hefty share of my time, and yet still do not subtract from my creative reserves. I draw, I play guitar, I write poetry and songs. I also used to be a moderately productive writer of fiction, but for whatever reason I simply cannot bring myself to write for myself any longer. That, in the proverbial nutshell, is my biggest problem.
Of course, I have no real reason to bitch, considering how relatively stress-free my life has become.
This writer’s block–this oddly specific form of it, which targets only those areas that matter most to me personally–is driving me up the wall. Why can’t I just sit down and write my stories anymore? Am I simply too content to draw upon my old emotional reserves? Or is it something more sinister? For the life of me, I can’t figure it out.
I sat down and banged out the last paragraphs of a paper my girlfriend needed done in about ten minutes without a single edit, and yet I can’t get through two sentences of what could be my greatest literary accomplishment without freezing up entirely. I maintain two blogs, but can’t find it in me to maintain a single plot.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.
There, now I feel a little better.