I’m not writing. At all. I mean, I’m writing for work, but that’s an entirely different animal. I’m enjoying that animal. I just haven’t felt any need or desire to write fiction.
This truth has been looming for a while, but it really hit me today when I passed by a car with a bumper sticker that said, “Court reporters always get the last word.”
I chuckled. I imagined the driver (a court reporter, no doubt) getting a kick out of the sticker. I wondered about his/her life. I thought, “This is something I should scribble in my ‘writing ideas’ journal.” But then I thought, “Eh” and started pondering what to make for dinner.
I just wasn’t interested in delving into this imaginary person’s life. I haven’t been interested in delving into the imaginary life of anyone lately. It’s been this way for several months.
There was a time when I felt guilty about this lack of interest. I thought it meant I was lazy or unambitious. I have the ability to write short stories and novels, so I should. There’s that damning word — should. If you want to kill the pleasure in anything, throw a “should” in front of it.
I don’t feel guilty anymore. Fiction isn’t appealing right now because my nonfiction, my life, is. I feel very full up–with love, friends, family, work. And TV. Lots of TV. Yes, I have free time. Yes, I could open up the file for my last unfinished novel and work on it, but I don’t want to. And if that makes me sound like a tantrum-having child, I don’t care.
This isn’t a case of “writer’s block.” For me, writer’s block is all about wanting to write, but being unable. A sort of mental constipation. That’s not my problem. I don’t want to write. I don’t miss it. There are no words longing to get out. There are no characters bouncing around inside my head, begging to live on paper. When there are, I’ll know. It’s pretty difficult to ignore.