They said it would happen, but I didn’t believe them. They said once I finished “The Year of the Blog,” once I completed 366 straight days of writing, I would write less, I would peter out, and my blog posts would become more and more infrequent until I wasn’t writing at all.
I scoffed! Of course, I always planned on taking the pressure off and allowing myself the freedom to NOT write every day. For a year, all I thought about was fodder for my blog. All I thought about was how I could work any experience into a blog post. At times, I felt enslaved to my computer and my words.
The first few weeks, I could not figure out how NOT to write every day. I was so in-tuned with viewing life as a landscape of writing ideas, I did not know how to turn it off. I methodically continued to write every day.
However, one Sunday in January, (I think I was a little hung over), I made the deliberate decision not to write. That evening, when I lay in bed and thought about the day, I felt both liberated and guilty. My mind had finally shut off enough that I had finally given myself the permission not to write, but at the same time, I felt shame that I had not pushed myself to try and come up with a topic and write.
Over the course of the past five months, I have written regularly at least three times a week. I told myself I had to keep writing. I have some friends who are also aspiring writers, and although they are full of talent, they rarely write. They do not have time, they say, but I know, it is not about having time, it is about making time. It is about freeing the mind and allowing the imagination to run wild.
In the last few weeks, though, I have found myself in what could be considered nothing less that a conundrum. I have lost my mojo. I have found myself idea-less. I am wordless. I am mute. Nothing inspires me. As I go through my day, nothing jumps out as the topic for a blog post. Not even my stats are an inspiration, something I spent a good part of last year obsessing over. I have lost my mojo, and I do not know what to do. Part of me thought I would be writing the next great American novel this summer, but I do not have enough ideas to try that either.
To those who have been faithful readers, this is my apology. I am going to try and come back. I feel an emptiness inside right now, and I know it is from not using my imagination and allowing the words to flow.