Yet I feel the urge to write? Does anyone else have this conundrum? I stare at a blank screen and nothing comes to mind, but I feel as though I need to write. And if I force myself to write then I end up getting bored with it and never returning to it again. It must be pure, the idea has to be organic. And even then, I still end up trashing it. The only stories I have ever finished were shorts.
I truly feel as though I just don't have something to say. Maybe I just don't have a voice. I have nothing profound nor important to state and I think my brain recognizes this. But, my ambition to write clouds the fact I just don't have any ideas worth caring for. They say "write from what you know". Well, what if I know nothing? I don't leave the house. i don't have a job, or school, or any social activities. Is this my problem? Is loneliness drowning my creativity?
I think part of it might be the pressure you are placing on yourself to write that important work. But the very thing you're trying so hard to do is eluding you because you are trying so hard to do it.
Or maybe I'm projecting.
Thinking of the last four novels I wrote, I knew I wanted to write something. I felt like I needed to, can't explain it beyond that. That's kind of how you're feeling, right? But I had no effing clue what to write about. Zero. So I'd go for rides and kick around this and that or just drive, enjoy the scenery, not think about too much of anything.
My last novel's idea came to me as I was driving past a road, Cherry St. A vision popped into my head of a kid, a young male prostitute named Cherry. A couple of days later, my husband and I were sitting in our van at the beginning of a dike, two feet from this iron gate, looking out over the marsh. We were talking about something, I can't remember what, and he said, "Some people just wanna die." I wrote it down right then, I
knew that was Cherry's story, I knew it. Those words, that road, the van, that gate, that dike, all became integral to my novel.
My point is, I knew I wanted to write something but I wasn't shackled by that. Instead I was looking, kicking stuff around, open to whatever came my way, and something did.