Climbing out of the rut

I should be writing. The lost in thought, internal movie playing, searching for just the right way to describe, squeezing blood onto the page exquisite agony.

But, like an unfocused, scared, doody head, I'm not. I'm blogging. And not that there is anything wrong with blogging - when anyone but me does it. But when I do it, when I'm put together 3+ posts in a row on varying topics and have another halfway completed one in my brain... well, I'm stalling.

Writer's block? I don't know that it really applies. I don't lack for ideas, regardless of quality. I don't lack for characters. Even when I struggle to find a particular way to phrase something for days on end. I don't think writer's block is really the issue. Unless my view of writer's block is narrow or lacking perspective.

Regrettably, I think I'm in the territory of pullum stercore. See? 'Cause wasting the time to look up how to say chicken shit was such a brilliant use of my time.

If I remark, for surely the four hundredth time on here, that it's been an off kind of time lately for not just me but plenty of the people I know, I'm not covering any new territory here. I feel dangerously close to wallowing. Which probably means I've been wallowing for some time and I'm getting uncomfortable as self-awareness dawns.

The writing community around my area has ebbed. The kick in the pants of getting together regularly that may have helped me get my groove back when I personally hit a nonproductive rut, is kind of having an off year as well. Not that my lack of motivation/energy/mental state is their fault. Or their problem. It's always going to come back to me. I finished one manuscript in artistic isolation. I don't really have an excuse. But if you've got a few minutes, I could readily expound on any number of reasons (*cough* rationalizing *cough*).

And I know I'm not alone. Not alone with struggling to get my rhythm back. Not alone struggling to make progress and keep up a viable momentum with life projects. Not alone, period.This past week I met up with friends several times. Went & saw a movie that gave me full on goosebumps for the first time in I can't remember when. We took in a regional attraction, and though underwhelmed, got in some exploring and tested out a new coffee shop. And chattered at one another.

It's helpful for morale. Alas, I'm still ankle-deep in a blog post.

I have been thinking about trying a different genre on for size. And then I get lost in an internal debate about am I just not finishing other projects I'm starting or realizing I need a change of pace? Overthinking until I cannot make a move.

Out of fear. Fear of being rubbish. Fear of failure. Fear of rejection. Fear of success. Fear of being overwhelmed.

Out of guilt. There is so much I should/could be doing at the moment instead of playing make believe and dream of being a 'respected' *cough* paid *cough* author some day.

Self-inflicted mumbo jumbo drives so much of our own inner crap. And in the interest of being honest, it is this self-inflicted crap that is tying me in knots. I work out my inner sludge through writing. I entertain myself through writing. I express myself, liberate myself, unburden thousands of chaotic thoughts through writing. So when I notice that I've stopped reading, that I've pulled away from my characters and stories, that new ideas are no longer coming to me rapidfire, I'm in a muddy, stinking rut. I've let my self-inflicted crap get the better of me. It serves no purpose other than to make me feel less than and effectively take away that which personally brings me joy.

I'd love to finish this post with some rah-rah go get 'em ending. I'm still detached. I'm still sad. I do see the dawning of a new day and I know this will pass. I will make progress. I will get back into my writing groove. I will finish a project. And then another one. And then the next.