I was in the middle of writing a story when I found out about the demise of a family member. That was nearly two weeks ago. Since then, I have been unable to return to that story, even with a submission deadline looming.
I could ascribe it to writer’s block. Or being far too busy, or far too grief stricken. But underneath that unwillingness to carry on writing, lies quite another beast. One that I find myself unable to name.
Is it doubt? All writers have their fair share of that. Is it ennui? There is certainly some of that within me, right now . But the overriding feeling is one of hopelessness. Why am I writing? What is the purpose here?Is anyone even reading what I write? And what do I hope to accomplish with my half baked stories and strange ramblings? Do I expect to become some kind of best selling novelist at my ripe age? Haha to that.
All human beings want to leave some kind of a mark on the world. Whether it is in the form of art or music or progeny or a business venture, there is always a yearning to be remembered. In the end, however, how many of us really are?
Death is a great leveller.
Right now, it is making me question all that I have felt was important or worthwhile. Will I come out the other end still writing? Only time will tell.