Creativity bound
I am failing, flailing, floundering, foundering…. I have a deeply rooted desire to write, create imagine, build and make commentary on the world, or perhaps to comment on a new world, of my own devising. As anyone can see from this newly incarnated blog, I’m not doing very well at it. I keep promising myself to spend at least an hour a day writing. Writing something, anything, even gibberish. Yet I fail to do so, every day. I don’t know what it is. Or I do, but I’ve become too lazy to do anything about it. TV, the boob-tube, the idiot box absorbs so much of my idle attention. It’s just too easy to sit back and let someone else do the storytelling for an hour… then another hour… then another hour until finally it’s time to go to sleep, or go to work. Feh. The problem exists not within the box, not within the pixellated world of fictional characters, it lies within myself. I feel the urges flowing but I allow them to ebb… to be soothed by the scintillating radiation of the cathode rays instead of blasting them out onto the page, or into my keyboard and from there on to whatever destiny awaits. I don’t presume to think I am writing the Great American Novel (TM) but there are many other good reasons to write.
