I tend to get burned out on occasion. This last week being one of those times. It isn’t that I didn’t have things to write about: a broken finger, a run-in with a friend with whom I no longer speak, the new pope, tree-huggers writing me about my previous post.
A few weeks ago, I took on another writing project for a client and it left me wondering whether or not I’m wasting my time as a writer. Now, I’m not asking for a pity party. My thoughts lean toward exploring what I’m writing rather than if I should be writing.
I read so many blogs now that I know that there are few that offer something entertaining everyday. It isn’t easy to come up with something worthwhile everyday. Even daily columnists such as Dave Barry, Erma Bombeck (when she wasn’t fertilizing the grass greener over her cemetary plot), and Herb Caen, all had periods that they ran off and let the syndicate rerun previous colunms.
Who knows what they did to recharge their batteries or find the groove they were in before the empty page stared up at them mockingly. What I do is avoid acting like a jackass. Yes, I’ll admit that most days I wake up with the sole purpose of making someone uncomfortable. I like making people doubt the things they believe. Somedays though I wake up and apply that very practice to myself.
Afterall, Descartes once said, “If you would be a real seeker after truth, it is necessary that at least once in your life you doubt, as far as possible, all things.”
Over the last few days I have doubted my chosen path as a writer. After a bit of examination, I realize that I may never write the great Mexican-American novel, and that is ok. The truth of the matter is I never really did. The future holds many possibilities, both literary and literally. I just need to find which one fits me best.