I am scared to write, I am completely scared to write. This blog has always been so easy, whenever I open the tab. It has to do with audience. An immediate audience, however small or sparse or occasional. I dilute myself constantly, and then wonder where my potency has gone. Filling my mind with television and half-attended to projects. Teaching myself how to be distracted when it’s already distraction which causes so many problems. Distraction is comfortable. Get out of that comfort, comfort will strangle you like a crossed lover. I am delirious with inner fatigue. I write to know who I am. I cannot speak this language inside without putting into words externally. Isn’t that something? The plague of being a writer.
From “Why I Write” by my beloved George Orwell:
Between the ages of about seventeen and twenty-four I tried to abandon this idea [that I should be a writer], but I did so with the consciousness that I was outraging my true nature and that sooner or later I would have to settle down and write books.
… I think from the very start my literary ambitions were mixed up with the feeling of being isolated and undervalued. I knew that I had a facility with words and a power of facing unpleasant facts, and I felt that this created a sort of private world in which I could get back my own failure in everyday life.
Ah. Exactly. Outraging my true nature. Ah! Indeed. I am constantly doing this and constantly wondering why I am so torn. Why I feel so stretched and against myself. Agony, from the Greek agon meaning contest (a factoid from Joyce Carol Oates On Boxing).
Agony, a inner contest.