The Frustrated Kind

When it comes to writing, lately, my mind seems to be in a state of paralysis. I have folders upon folders of outlines and beginnings of ideas; the kind that linger at thresholds, instead of move beyond them to become novels. It’s frustrating. And I’m tired of being frustrated.

If I could remove the word from the English language I would.

If I could remove it from my writing, I’d incise it away and replace with a useful tool.

But my current state of writing woes is burdened by more than paralysis. There’s also confusion and a sense of being out-to-sea in a book market that doesn’t resemble what I’m used to or even what I like. There’s little inspiration to be found in the works of my contemporaries. There’s the pretentious, still, and then there’s the plain awful, but worse and most prolific are the clones. The endless lines of replication. Until you cannot tell one story from the next or one author from the other.

How can a writer find inspiration in a world that’s already lost the human touch and most consequential, the unique humanness of communication? Where we drone about curating our lives to filtered perfection on social media platforms. Where an original thought is only as original as the 100 characters that said it before you.

Yes, I’ve been foiled by our brave new world, because I struggle to find the words to measure it right. Most of the greats have gone away; those who had the gifts to make us understand humanity a little better. Maybe it’s not frustration I feel. Maybe it’s anger. Wouldn’t you be angry too? Are you?


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