I haven't posted for a while, and thought it was time I got back onto the mule. Heeyah.
Which is funny, because the writing's been off the mule, too. Sporadic bursts here and there, like milk from the nose and just as attractive. Even though I know what's behind my inability to surge forth and conquer, I haven't been able to get past this hobby horse of an obstacle. You'd think my fear of leaving nothing of consequence behind after my death would at least match my fear of not meeting my own expectations.
Has the well run dry? Is that it? All I've got has been spilt onto the page? I'm an empty vessel, tabula rasa?
Good question.
I hope you weren't expecting me to have an answer. If you're here for more questions, though, I've got those by the barrel, mister.
Here's one:
What's the point of stories? Why write? For that matter, why read? In the larger picture, I mean. We all have our personal reasons for why we do what we do. But on a societal level, what's the true value of fiction? I understand and wholly support finding a path to others' experience. But do you think it works? Are we becoming any more compassionate as a species after centuries of fine, evocative works to learn from? If not for finding compassion and mutual understanding, what's the why of literature?
I can't fool myself into thinking I need an answer laid out before I'll be productive again; even my hindbrain knows a flimsy excuse when one piffles about in front of it. But it's a question worth asking, no? Any thoughts?
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