It’s been ages since I last wrote something. Last article I wrote went onto Biko’s blog. And then my boss read it and let me know that he read it and I thought it would be prudent to censor myself at least until I land the confirmation I need for this job since I’m still on probation. One cannot speak one’s mind all the time when one is approaching performance appraisal time.
But that’s not the real reason to be honest. At first I put it down to being busy at work, then to having to be careful about what I say because “you never know who your next client will be”. Then I put it down to good ol’ laziness.
But here’s the truth: I feel empty; drained of creativity. I’ve tried to convince myself to write more, to be consistent, for two years now but I just don’t have it in me. I think it’s true what they say about creativity and art: it’s easier to have that when your life sucks monkey balls…but you have your spark.
I’m starting to think that maybe my everyday happiness has killed my blog. I’m freaking ecstatic about my life now so I have no anger to vent, no fat stories to tell (ok I have loads of those but I want people to think I’m fit since I’ve been working out – not), no gossip to share, no interesting opinions, no heartbreak to spill. I’m happy goddamit and it’s making me a shit writer!
I’ve read and re-read the post I wrote for Biko’s blog, trying to find some inspiration to write, but I feel like it was written by someone else because you know what? I lost the spark somewhere and I can’t find it. And it’s eating me up inside because I do like writing. Maybe the problem is that I also want people to like my writing. And not five people. No, I want the whole of Tharaka-Nithi to like my posts. I want them to write back to me and tell me how fantastic I am. I want them to share my post in every way they can share it, and put me on a pedestal and bloody worship my writing. I want to log in to my page, check out my stats and see greatness in those stats.
I think I’m suffering from Writer’s Envy. That’s a real thing, right? I want to write like the greats and not be an occasional blogger. Hell, I don’t want to be called a blogger; I want to be called a writer. Because that’s taken more seriously, no?
I want to sit down and look at a hole in the wall and write some profound shit about that hole and have people buy into my interpretation of it and think I’m a genius.
But you know what I see when I look at the hole? I see a hole. An annoying hole with no promise of writing greatness. No promise of a post that will be read by more than 10 people. And it’s eating me up because I’m supposed to be this person who tells great stories with her fingers. But my fingers refuse to speak; the mind refuses to translate the erratic ideas that pop into my head into great stories, and all my hands want to do after a day at work is stuff my face with Coldstone and those delightfully sinful burgers and masala chips from Burger Hut.
So I’m asking you: can you help me find my spark? She’s a nice caramel colour (like Goody-Goody sticky sweets from back in the day), has a sweet tooth, is 5ft 6in, curvy yet toned and bright, with that wit and dry sense of humour that’s rare in a generation that thinks an audio clip with a guy called Mollis in it is funny. I need you to bring her back to me. I feel lost without her. Please…