I feel like I’ve written so many posts like the one you’re about to drown in. In fact, my very first WP post summarizes it. This is the entire reason I attempted to dive back into blogging.
When I was 14, I was quiet, frail and antisocially awkward. It was always difficult to propagate and then maintain a conversation with my peers. I thought I might have released “weird” pheromones that forced them to keep a good distance.
I had neon rainbows coursing through my neural networks (when my brain wasn’t attuned to high school nonsense). I would finish my homework (or precede my homework) by blogging about my day: my feelings, happenings, ponderings, cookings, bookings, crushes, blushes, hatreds, loves. My old LiveJournals (…yes…) reflect an aggravated but opinionated and verbose adolescent, unscathed by social pressures. I would recount just about everything in the flowery languages of all the beautiful novels in which I’d lose myself.
Today? 23 years young. I’m an entire bachelor’s degree and 1000 research papers gone from staying awake for 40 hours straight, reading the latest Harry Potter novel before the spoilers could desecrate my LJ blog. I am approaching “real adulthood,” as I call it – you know, that point when you actually move out of your parents’ house and take on all of the bills you did not realize they were paying for you, simply because you have a fabulous job in a brilliant city. Now that I’m here, why have I nothing to say about it? Where are all of my adjectives and snarky comments?
Inspiration used to gently tap me on the skin, like a feather floating on the breeze. I was so tactually (and mentally, of course) reactive to everything. I mean, my bald gym teacher’s phallically bald head was the subject of many a post.
Sadly, I believe part of it has to do with the fact that those neon rainbows swirling around in my skull have been released. I’ve met people who understand a lot of them and can engage in a genuine back-and-forth exchange. Thus, what is left in my head to expel on a blog? These things are no longer bursting at their membranous seams, due to my newfound ability to communicate with just about anyone, for at least 5 decent minutes. And my close friends and I can ramble on for days about the rainbows.
Does this mean that total quarantine would be an excellent remedy for writer’s block?