It’s been over a year since I posted anything here, and I don’t really know why. I’m certainly not any less introspective (or bat shit crazy). My life hasn’t suddenly become shitshow-less. If anything, you’d think a global pandemic would be perfect fodder for my musings. Yet while other creatives flourished, as evidenced by the onslaught of wildly entertaining TikToks, memes and comedy bits, my creativity hit a brick.fucking.wall. Was it the lack of social events and travel that deprived me of engaging material? Or the seemingly unscalable mountain called virtually schooling two elementary schoolers? Was it the isolation of working from home at a job with unparalleled stress? Or was it worrying that trying to work out some very strong yet very unexpected feelings in a blog post could drive away the only person I’ve spent time with since this whole creativity-killer started? I’m going with (E) all of the above.
Still, it’s curious. Other than the obvious risk of option (D) (that’s punny), writing has always proved the best vehicle for me to process my thoughts. Perhaps the depth of it all was too treacherous to traverse, the uncertainty of every aspect of my life grossly exaggerated by the endless unpredictability of quarantine. Maybe it was the harsher eye I started viewing my writing with after enrolling in an online seminar ironically selected to inspire more discipline and creativity in my writing. Or maybe I was just fucking scared and tired, and knew that complaining publicly would do nothing but add to the collective shit stew the world was already wading knee-deep through daily. I mean, I tried. I read a lot about the writing process. I listened to podcasts about writing. I even started several posts during that time, scribbling notes in a journal or popping on my phone or laptop to jot down some ideas. But each time, I struggled to find a point in any of my stories. I had no comedic relief to share, no questionably useful advice to impart. I had nothing to offer anyone who might have looked here for a distraction from the dumpster fire that was 2020 (well, a different kind of dumpster fire anyway). I felt stymied. Stagnant. Creatively paralyzed by the monotony my life had become.
So frankly, I’m somewhat dumbfounded I was finally was able to publish this. If anything, my life has become even more stressful, carrying some of the weight for 2 dear colleagues currently on extended leave, heartbreakingly watching my 11 year old struggle in ways I never imagined, and shouldering 95% of the fallout from that struggle as yet another custody change has left me without even one day a week to just sleep in. Oh, and I haven’t gotten laid in a reaaaaally long time. I’m exhausted, stressed, and immeasurably dick-deprived. Yet here I am – alive, employed and healthy, minus a case of some introspective laryngitis which hopefully is on the mend.