Dealing with Uninspiration by Wallowing In It

I’ve been on an unintended hiatus lately. My love affair with writing is slowly spiraling into an uninspired hate/hate relationship. It’s becoming what it once was for me 5 years ago.

I don’t want that.

I spend a lot of time writing and focusing my thoughts into the written word. While struggling with my craft, I find myself envious of those who are able to pen their thoughts with beautiful aplomb and have their praises sung in the blogosphere… and beyond.

OK, I’ll admit I am the self-centered narcissist who enjoys it when her stats are high and her comment feeder is brimming with responses. It’s painfully narrow and ridiculously self-serving.

But, I’m also a big hypocrite. I love
myself
so much
I want others
to confirm
it for me.I love myself so much I want others to confirm it for me.

I’m one of those lurkers your blogging fairy godmother warned you about. I’m that jerk that will subscribe to your site and never leave a single comment.

There, I said it: Raven Moore is a big fat turkey lurker.

It’s not because I don’t have anything to say. Well, really…maybe it is. Yet, I’m not clickity-clackity on the keyboard telling you how much I love/hate what you wrote because…I’m pooped.

I’m pooped with absorbing your thoughts and melding them with mine. I’m pooped with trying to form an opinion to counter yours or agree with your perspective.

I spend my hours researching stuff and gathering opinions on things that make your Sunday cup of coffee seem like an exercise in terrorism.

By the time I settle to sift through my Google reader, I’m pooped. I’m just glad to read something that somebody else took the time to write and I don’t have to think about.

Therefore, I’m more than envious of the other writers, bloggers, journalists, most-popular-guy/gal-on-the-Internet.  The vast amounts of energy devoted to writing is more than I think I can muster for now. My passion stores are constantly being fed by things other than writing, but my focus is suffering.

That is bad. Very, very bad. Yet, it is part of the problem. My focus is suffering because I depend too much on my writing. Shouldn’t your passion inspire you? Perhaps. Yet, not all the time.

Should I be inspired to write (period) as opposed to writing to inspire?

Maybe this is backwards.

I’m too narrow. Or, I’m too wide. I’m all over the place like swine flu (except, probably even more dangerous).

*Sigh*I can’t worry about that now. Instead, I’ll be thankful for the others that remain consistently glass full of inspiration.

It is lovely.

It’s thought provoking and makes me wish I could be more or become satisfied with less. So, if you are reading this: don’t solely rely on your passion to be your inspiration.

It may turn against you if you do.

And to all the others still writing – please keep doing so because I’m still pooped.