Friday, November 28, 2014

I can't write

That's the problem with me nowadays. Even if the things I need to write are just lying before me, waiting to be touched, I simply can't write. I've tried writing at home, at the office; I've tried walking around, going to the malls, running at the park,  but still, when I get home and sit before my desk,  I simply can't write. I keep staring at the computer screen, wondering what's wrong. It seems that a part of me is on strike, or is trying to make me feel I would be totally helpless if I keep ignoring its demands. Its demands are my secret pleasure: Annie Proulx, Marguerite Duras, even Paul Theroux; and other delightful authors I've not been reading nowadays. I've been so busy trying to learn to shoot and do the Adobe Premiere that I haven't been reading a really good book lately; all I read are photography books and software instructions so that part of me that is fueling my writing is now getting back at me. I need to locate my pleasure first before I can go back to write.

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