This has been slow-going, trying to get this blog up to speed again.
I find myself so overwhelmed by my own ruminating that I can't seem to sort out what I want to say. It's sort of like this exchange between Albert Brooks (as the character Daniel Miller) and Rip Torn (Bob Diamond) in "Defending Your Life":
Miller: Where were you? I'm just curious.
Diamond: I'd tell you, but you wouldn't understand.
Miller: Don't treat me like a moron. Try me.
Diamond: I was trapped near the inner circle of thought.
Miller: I don't understand.
Diamond: I told you ...
I often feel as if I'm trapped near the inner circle of thought. It accounts, in part, for my reputation as aloof, sometimes smug. I can get so pensive at times that it seems as if I'm disengaged. It's the other way around -- sometimes I'm so engaged in trying to unravel one issue or another that I find it difficult to express myself. Hence, writer's block.
It's also why I haven't yet done anything to promote this blog. Sure, it's out there for anyone who happens to stumble across it, but I haven't advertised it to friends or family or the general public. At the moment, I'm writing this for the mere exercise of writing, the act of putting thoughts in a readable format (remember when we called that "putting thoughts on paper"?) Eventually, I'll feel sufficiently comfortable with sharing my perspective that I'll get around to addressing specific topics, beyond my my writer's block, that is.
I've come to realize that the problem is my sense of vulnerability -- the reasons for which I hope to get into in future posts -- is hindering my ability to share. Writing in any form is a deeply personal act. Even if you're not writing about yourself, all writers reveal some part of themselves in their words. Doesn't matter whether it's a memoir, a novel, a biography or a news story. The way in which writers approach the topic at hand always exposes something about their psyches, hard as they may try to conceal it.
I was trained in journalism -- newspapers, specifically -- and I liked it because it provided some measure of detachment. I could exercise my craft under the cover of objectivity. It was not, I told myself and others, about me, but about the day's news. But as I've gone back and looked at my writing, I realize that everything I've ever written had a little bit of me in them. I'll bet some computer whiz could cook up an algorithm that would figure out all of my biases and hangups and fears based on how I wrote the lede or turned a phrase or structured my stories, regardless of whether the personal pronoun was ever used.
I've also come to realize that I've been missing one thing in my overall outlook on life that I had in abundance back in the day: a sense of boldness, at least when it came to writing. I approached every assignment, every project, every essay with the unshakeable knowledge that I could write anything. I have no shortage of doubts about my abilities, but until the last few years I was fearless when I sat down to write. But a few years back, for a whole lot of reasons, my confidence was shot to hell, and when the trepidation extended to my belief in my skill as as a writer, well ... game over.
So figure me, if you come across this, for these navel-gazing posts. I've always been reluctant to slap a PTSD diagnosis on myself, but there's no doubt I'm working through some old trauma. Be patient as I take a few baby steps on the road back to writing. I'll be back on my feet soon.
