I’ve been writing for a long, long time – many years. And there have been times when I’ve experienced writer’s block – many times. But lately I’m undergoing a new kind of obstruction, a kind of ennui born of futility.
The more I study the world, the more I examine people, the more convinced I become that we really don’t want to change our minds about anything we hold dear. And that’s one of the things I most want to do with my writing: get people to reconsider how they approach life; get them to question their certitude.
Unfortunately, that doesn’t happen. Firstly, very few people have read my books. That’s okay. I never expected to be a bestseller. But when you devote decades to your craft, sinking your heart and soul into your creations, and 73 people derive joy from your words while 7 billion ignore them, it’s difficult to maintain enthusiasm for continuing on.
I’m not feeling sorry for myself. Just pointing out that there’s very little incentive to produce more when what lives out there now hides in shadow. Partly that’s my fault. I haven’t been able to get my message out to enough folks. And partly it’s the fault of the system we live in, where I’m competing not only against other writers for your attention, but also against everything else going on in the world.
Secondly, most of the few hundred who have read my work (73 of whom were enthusiastic about it) came away either uninspired or at least not very passionate about my babies. Again, that’s probably my fault for being unable to properly connect. What I found fascinating or outrageous, others found blasé.
That’s okay. We all have different realities. But when I drilled down to a rich vein, extracting what I thought was gold and exposing it to the light, the majority of my readers glanced at it and saw pyrite. They couldn’t detect what I was trying to show them.
So I’ve sort of lost the passion. And if I can’t write with passion, people aren’t going to read what I wrote with passion either.