Hard Times

In the spirit of Seinfeld, which I don't particularly like, I'm going to post a blog about nothing. I'm just going to ramble on in a way that makes everyone who reads it wonder what exactly is wrong with me, which is absolutely fine because it's something I'm constantly wondering myself.

Actually, you know what? Never mind. I just realized, like I always realize when I start to write, that I have something to write about after all.

Sort of.

A couple days ago I told a friend that I have so little to do when I'm not grading or working that after my summer travels, I'm going to look for a second job. She pretty much told me I was crazy and that what I need to do is start writing another book. I told her I knew she was right, but I had--have--absolutely no intention of doing any such thing.

Then last night when I was on the phone with my mom, who was going on and on about how sorry she felt for Keifer because music is the only thing he wants to pursue in life and the chances of his being successful aren't very high, I said, What about me? When I was in high school and in college, all I wanted to do is write, and yet here I am teaching, stuck in this godforsaken place. Why don't you feel sorry for me?

I didn't really want her to feel sorry for me. That's not why I said what I did. I said it to make her see that teenagers have dreams that don't come true all the time, that it's not that big a deal. But now as I sit here writing this blog that started out about nothing, I'm realizing not that I'm lamenting where I ended up in life (at least not in regards to my career because I can't imagine life without my kids) but that I am lamenting what seems to be a complete and utter lack of desire to write anything at all ever again.

I don't know if it's that I'm getting old...I don't know if it's that I'm uninspired...I don't know if it's that I'm super depressed...but the desire, the yearning, the need to transcribe the goings on in my mind into print that have been omnipresent my entire life just are no longer there.

And that, people who read my blog, is way scarier and way worse and way more upsetting than being a teacher stuck in Florida for my entire fucking life. Having no commercial--or even critical--success in writing is something I've totally come to terms with; but writing not being who I am? That is not even a little bit okay, not at fucking all. 

And so, people who read my blog, when I started writing this blog that was supposed to be about nothing, I realized what I'm going to do: I'm going to force myself to write. In hopes that writing will turn out to be like sex--studies show that the more you do it, the more you want to--I'm going to force myself to write in this blog every night for...how long? A week certainly isn't enough. Two weeks isn't either. Ummm one month. I'm going to force myself to write in this blog every day until June 22, which is actually the day I leave for Chicago, so this couldn't have worked out more perfectly if it'd been planned.

(It's almost like kismet, right?)

Now I have to warn you: A month of writing when I don't want to write and probably will have nothing to write, well, I'll be searching, and things might get a little rambly, a little personal, a little uncomfortable, and a  little weird, so if you don't want to read what's coming, I won't be mad. In fact, it's probably better if you don't.

But if you do, do not say you weren't warned.