...That's my problem.
I want to write, but I never feel like I have anything to say.
I'm not an interesting person. My own life bores me. I have a fairly active imagination, but something happens in the process of getting it to the page. My inner critic I guess. She sits by my ear, and she doesn't have an off button.
But all of this applies to fiction. Writing a blog is another thing, with its own set of problems. Mainly being brave enough to be vulnerable. I read a quote somewhere (I wish I had written down the source) that if you don't feel vulnerable when you're writing, then you're not doing it right...or something. That was a definite paraphrase. Anyway, those words set something off in me the way hearing a certain truth does. I don't like being vulnerable. But I can only write from my heart when I'm willing to do so.
Now what does this have to do with writing a blog for DF? Surely I can write about whatever I want as long as its vaguely depression related. Hell, I could write about my list of baby names. I don't expect many people would find that to be scintillating material, but I get the feeling this is mainly supposed to be about me. Sharing myself. Working things out through words. I love words, but maybe they don't love me. One of us is failing the other more than 50 percent of the time. The ideas, when I have them, don't make it to the page (or the screen) the way they were meant to while they were still floating around in my head. Damn critic. I know she's to blame.
So I guess I did have something to write about after all: how my critic is ruining my writing life. She's so stifling. Like an overbearing, controlling parent. I need to learn to tune her out the way I do my other long-winded relatives. But admittedly, I find her quite protective. It's a unhealthy relationship for sure.
Well, it's something to ponder anyway.
I think the klonipin might be kicking in.