The Last Hurrah

11 years and 3 months ago I had this idea, probably delusional as it turned out, that if I set aside chunks of time to clack away at the keyboard on a regular basis and produce a blog, the creative cogs in my brain would then fall into place, whirr into action and spur me on to greater things.

Has that happened? Of course not. Which begs the question, how badly did I really want to embark on something greater? What happened to that novel locked inside me waiting to burst forth? Not much, as it turned out. I find it difficult to sustain a project past a few chapters. I'm not bad at beginnings, it's just that annoying middle part where you actually have to bring the story and its characters to life, and the end part where you have to pull it all together and tie up the loose ends, that brings me undone.

I have a short attention span when it comes to writing, which explains not only the dwindling number of entries on this blog over the past few years, but why I ventured into writing a daily haiku for two straight years in 2017 and 2018, the second year of which was presented online as the Haiku Diary 2018, complete with poems, reflections and photos. Nothing much else made it on to any page anywhere for those two years. You'd think coming up with three lines a day would be a cinch, but getting to the essence of an experience or observation in no more than seventeen syllables had its challenges, so after feeling somewhat haiku'd out I must admit to writing only a few in the last couple of years.

Have dabbled in writing short stories, which sounds simple enough, but there's a real art to writing a compelling short story, and despite consuming hundreds by other authors, very few really grab me. The short story section in my bookcase has taken up quite a bit of space with the many volumes picked up over the years, but as I doubt I will read them again they have been bagged up and deposited at the local op shop for someone else to enjoy, all bar a few favourites. The novel is the dream, but self-doubt looms like an ever-present black cloud, menacing, ready to put a dampener on my feeble efforts. It's not permanently over my head, so that's at least promising.

So why all this whining you might say. As Nike so aptly put it, Just Do It. Obviously easier said than done, and I've reminded myself of this mantra on countless occasions, but as evidenced in my personal journal, I have arrived at this point more times than I care to admit. At one level I know what to do, but don't seem to have the wherewithal to move forward, so once again I arrive at where I started this little rant, how badly do I want it?

I read prolifically, and gaze with envy at row after row of other people's creative achievements every time I enter a bookshop. I scour second-hand bookshops, and find some of my most interesting discoveries have introduced me to authors I have never come across before and inspired me no end. But then there's the debilitating effect of doubting I will ever have an offering to add to all those shiny bright brand new releases which seem to pop up with amazing regularity, sometimes even with authors in tow for the obligatory book signing.

There are indeed countless writers out there, published and unpublished, scribbling and clacking away with enthusiasm day after day, despite their own personal versions of self-doubt, for I've yet to meet any creative person who is not dogged by the fear of not being able to come up with the goods. Of never being able to produce not only one, but another book or painting, sculpture, film, song, poem, musical composition or dance or whatever art form they're immersed in, to justify their reason for being and satisfy that constant urge to bring something from its embryonic stage into full life.

For a woman to birth something other than children and then mother it with the same sense of purpose, attention and care jumped distinctly off the page from Sue Monk Kidd's latest novel The Book of Longings. It reminded me of my first few posts back in 2009 when I too wrote of bringing something to birth; the expectation, mixed feelings, the waiting and the labour involved as the stages followed their natural course.

So I've come full circle. I'm back where I started, with a dream, a desire, and still asking myself the question whether I have what it takes. The only proactive step I've taken is to come to the realisation it's high time I embarked on a new venture, hence this post both concludes Banishing Writer's Block and begins my new blog Don't Quote Me where I select a quote from someone other than me, whether notable or not, and reflect on what it could mean, both personally and more broadly.

Will ditching one blog and starting another get the creative juices flowing towards something more substantial? Who knows. Like spending a year in Tuscany or Paris or some idyllic Greek island to locate that quintessential writing environment, changing locations is simply a geographical move and brings no guarantees. So will it be any different this time around?

I guess we'll have to wait and see.

(Don't Quote Me should be up and running within the next week)