Jack's Place

Taking the Road More Traveled . . . ?

For forty-odd years in this noble profession
I've harbored a guilt, and my conscience is smitten.
So here is my slightly embarrassed confession—
I don't like to write, but I love having written. ~ MICHAEL KANIN

         Good morning, friends and followers, and I hope it finds you well. It finds me in a sharing mood, and that's why I'm here. I realize it isn't "Phriday," but I got words. Make of them what you will...
         I have mentioned in a number of places that I used to write a lot, I've enjoyed some minor success that never grew into anything really meaningful, and that I haven't written anything original in years. This is all true. I've been aware of writing.com for a good many years, and know that there are an awful lot of good stories here that can't be found anywhere else. So I joined under my handle, the Phantom Reviewer, to read, enjoy, and attempt to impart some of the lessons I've learned over a lifetime of writing to folks not as far along the path that they might be able to use to take their writing to new heights.
         This has, by and large, worked out well. I have indeed read some wonderful stories that can't be found anywhere else and made a few friends in the process, but I had an ulterior motive. I had hoped that daily exposure to all the fine works I was sure to encounter here would inspire me to return to the page. That, alas, hasn't worked out so well. Allow me to explain...
         During my "heyday," when I was younger and believed that I was God's gift to writing, I used to love to write. I couldn't wait for a spare hour in my busy day that I could fill with words on the page, and when I couldn't write, I was constantly making notes about what I would write the next time I got to my desk. I retired almost nine years ago, and was looking forward to all the stories I would be able to write with the 12+ hours of free time I would have every day. But, as so often happens, the reality didn't match the dream.
         Perhaps I overdid it at the beginning and burned myself out. Whatever the reason, I no longer find writing interesting. I have a little checkbook-size calendar where I write everything from household chores to doctor appointments to when to reload my phone; I'll forget if I don't! And clear mornings always say "review." When the workload is minimal and I have a block of hours, I mark in big letters, "WRITE." But as those days approach I find myself consumed with a sense of dread, like it's some horrible chore I have to do, like mucking out the septic tank or something. I get out my materials and try to produce something, but it's like being at a boring job and watching the clock, praying for it to be over.
         This saddens me. I have been a writer at one level or another for as long as I can remember, and I don't want to not be one, but this is the reality I must live with. I am currently parceling out old books and stories that I've written before, and I hope you find them worthy, but nothing new has come from the old pen in a while. I will continue to schedule these writing sessions and continue to hope that I catch the bug again, but if it isn't to be, know that I will keep active as a reviewer and a blogger, once I retitle this particular endeavor. Shortly I will reboot this and prattle on about this and that whenever the mood strikes me. Reviewing will continue apace.
         And writing? Well, let's just say, fingers crossed, and let it go at that. Have a productive week, and I'll see you around the stacks!

Stay inspired,
Taylor...