A professional case of writer's block

So, it's been a while since I've written anything out here. I've prepared my excuses:

• I've been sick.
• I've been busy.
• I've been working a lot.
• I had to find a new catalytic converter for my truck.
• I went on vacation.
• The holidays were crazy.
• I suck at being disciplined.

Yeah. That. But the real reason is simply that I've been suffering from writer's block. In a turn of phrase from a coworker's observation about one of her own foibles: "Probably not a desirable attribute in a writer."

Yep. I write for a living. And that, I think, is the germ of the problem.

I've always struggled with not really feeling like I have anything to say. Anyone reading this who has spent time in my company is either beginning to giggle or (if they are less fond of me) allowing one side of their mouth twist into a sardonic smirk. I talk pretty much constantly -- to people around me, to myself, to my computer, to my shoes... 

But committing my thoughts to writing? Gads! What for? Who'd want to read the various and sundry things blowing around in my mind like sad, empty plastic grocery bags?

In my work life, I write for others. I inform, persuade, entertain, argue, teach -- about a variety of topics for a variety of audiences. But the thoughts themselves are rarely my own. In fact, some of them are completely inconsistent with what I personally think, feel, or believe. My clients' thoughts tend to be just costumes I slip on while I prance around someone else's stage, polishing lines from someone else's script. At the end of the day, I slip them off, fold them neatly, lock them in a drawer, and go home to feed and walk my dogs.

I'm sure you've heard it said that the best way to kill your delight in something is to do it for a living, and I think this is partly what has happened with my writing. The idea of turning on the computer when I get home is enough to cause a sick feeling in my stomach and the onset of a headache. But, perhaps even worse:

Writing for others has made me lazy.

I used to write almost compulsively. I journaled daily. I wrote poems by the dozens. I forayed sometimes into short story. While I was still in school, I worked out my ideas, thoughts, entire belief systems in writing. Writing was an organ, just as vital to me as a lung or my heart. Now, instead of digging into something that interests me or piques me or makes me wonder, I simply float along, borrowing other people's thoughts and writing about whatever I'm paid to write about. Where once I used writing as an exercise for my mind, I now treat it like a cash cow. I feed it only what it needs so it can produce for me, milk it for what it's worth, pat it on its side, and set it out to pasture until the routine begins again. 

Depressing? You bet. Without my writing -- allow me to emphasize: MY writing -- I'm not entirely sure of who I am. I'm a bit lost. Blurry around the edges. Insubstantial. Self-less.

So, I'm back here again. I hope to be more disciplined, more motivated, more...mySelf again. Wish me luck.