I recently had a very brief conversation with a friend wherein I expressed my lack of passion for anything. Since I was young, I wanted to be a writer, but I have never completed anything. At first I blamed my nosy mother and a general atmosphere growing up of not encouraging artistic endeavours. It’s fizzled down to a struggle to write anything, even when the ideas swirl around in my head. If you don’t live and breathe your dream, it’s never going to happen. If you don’t use every spare moment to pursue your goal, you have an unrealized dream.
Another friend talks about how writing got her through some difficult years when her father was ill. The characters became her friends and writing about them helped her to deal with her own reality. I’ve never had that kind of tangible experience where one might feel that the characters they breathe life into could almost step off the page at any moment.
I’ve recently listened to the audio-book version of A Wrinkle in Time and there’s an introduction by the director of the soon-to-be-released film adaptation and she talks about how much reading the book meant to her growing up. It’s meant a lot to thousands of individuals who read it. I think it’s a profound thing when a writer’s book touches the lives of others. I wish I could write something so profound, but I don’t think I ever will.
I dream of taking short trips somewhere quiet to write, but who am I really kidding? I will do anything but write. I have no passion, no drive, no focus on writing, or anything else for that matter. Two years ago I discovered loom knitting. I knitted a few hats and scarves for people. I even asked for a sock loom. Now all I have is left over yarn, a partially completed blanket and a set of looms. I have no interest in it anymore.
Maybe there’s something deeper wrong with me. I don’t know.