Under Protest

I am writing under protest. This is despite having had a good weekend with good friends and fun times. Apparently those are not sufficient to spawn creativity or interest.

It is not uncommon for me to struggle to write. Coming up with a decent bit of microfiction is often pretty easy, but I try not to force it. Part of the reason behind this exercise is to build up positive associations with writing.

Today I'm in the odd position of not just feeling unmotivated with writing, but bored at the idea of it. The “why do I want to write fiction?” question becomes “why do I want to write?” I'm sure that's just tiredness talking. It feels very real, though. On the other hand, I also know that it isn't. I suppose there is an interesting positive highlight to this, actually.

In the past, without the extended buffer of positive writing memories, when I felt tired like this I would internalize the feeling of “writing is pointless”. But I have been writing every day for a while, now. Usually it's at worst neutral. There have been a lot of good days when I feel proud of what I've done. Then there's the “Raiders” series which – although the pride and energy from it is long past now – is still a reminder that part of me really loves this.

Even if it fades into the background and is forgotten sometimes.