Within My Means

I quit writing last weekend. Mentally, I quit a week before then, but only last Sunday did I admit to myself that I had no interest in booting the computer. The new story I’d been so fired up about felt stale and stupid, Cristal’s angel story was too hard to sort out, and something’s gone wrong with the novel again. And blog posts? I had a head full of nothing. No inspiration, no inkling, no nuttin. I can’t even call it a block. It was a vacuum; a black hole where my passion used to be. It was—and is—the worst feeling a writer can ever have.

From desperation, I managed to eke out a card tag for Nicole and even that, I fear, ended up a bit whiny(er) compared to my usual “literary snapshot”. At least the card itself was amusing—it featured a quote from dear Oscar Wilde declaring that anyone who lives within their means is suffering from a serious lack of imagination. While writing the tag, it occurred to me that, though Oscar likely meant it literally, the quote applied to my present mental condition.

I have lately been living within my mental means and by so doing, I have suffered from a serious lack of imagination.

My job, and Ter’s, for that matter, sucks up a humungous amount of energy from January 1 to March 31. From the time I return to work from Christmas holidays to sometime around Easter, I lose my personality, my sense of humour, and my ability to create. I am so distracted, so consumed, by day to day reality that everything associated with writing—imagination, passion, joy and desire—deserts me. This past quarter has been particularly rough, and though I generally write to escape, this time around I couldn’t raise the will to think about it, let alone do it. When my mind is in control, it strangles my imagination. Life is colourless, tasteless, flat, and pointless. I go through the motions, trusting that something will change, that this too shall pass, and that I will regain my passion for wordplay.

I can’t name the moment when inspiration stirred once more. It might have been during the first episode of The White Queen—watching a woman step into a world that doesn’t want her suggested a fix for my dilemma with the novel. Then a few things happened to inspire blog posts. The pressure let up at work. The energy calmed down at home. I’m emerging from the fog of fiscal year end, fiscal year start, and too much sugar over Easter. Part of me wants to jump up and down and scream about it, but most of me is so relieved that I just want to lie in the sun and let the images form behind my eyes. I feel like my systems are coming back on line, my fluid levels are rising, and shape and colour are seeping back into a barren landscape.

I am ready once more to live beyond my means.