Tick Tock... Tick Tock

I was just over a Wil Wheaton dot Net and was reading an entry where he talks about The Writer waking up one day while he was in Vegas, then going back to sleep once he got home. I think maybe that's been an issue for me, too. The Writer has been mostly dormant and begrudgingly produces drivel about mundane occurrences in my life when I force him to sit at the keyboard.

The problem is TW's not often inspired. It feels like a garage band that has had a wonderful album ready to burst forth once they get a contract. They've been working on and rehearsing and tweaking and loving these songs for years as they strugle to get attention. Then they are introduced to the public who devours this labor of love and they become an "overnight success."

But, having put forth their best in one fell swoop, they are hard pressed to maintain the same quality and depth when they must turn out another album in a matter of months. It becomes simple and mundane and nobody wants to listen anymore.

Sometimes they can regroup. Sometimes they manage to come up with more songs that capture that revolutionary sound that the public craves. Rarely, however, do they continue to impress time after time simply because the creativity has dried up. The Writer has gone to sleep.

The first months of blogging were fun and inspired. I was allowed to tell the stories that I had been saving inside of me for several years. I let loose my creative works and still look upon them with pride. But now, the stories have been told. The creativity, untended, has dried up.

To be sure, a big part of the dilemna is time. I do not have - or feel I do not have - the time to allow The Writer to awaken, stretch his soul, and comfortably produce worthwhile works. "Just tell it. Be quick about it. We've only got a few minutes." And so comes forth a factual, dry, witless, unentertaining account of something ordinary.

For crying out loud, even now TW cannot seem to find the will to write a paragraph more than two or three sentences long.

I remember a time when I had time. I would play games. I would write. I would create. Now it seems I don't have time to record new sounds for my wav archive. I don't have time to sort and edit and post photographs. I don't have time to play games. I don't have time to do those things I know I love to do. What has happened? Where does my time go?

I think to some degree I have been in a mental survival mode. So much has happened over the last two years that has simply drained me emotionally. Some I have made feeble attempts to describe here, some I have kept to myself. All have sought to wither my creativity. But a new age dawns. Changes are afoot. The sparkle, however faint, has returned. It is time for The Writer to awaken, stretch his soul, and let his creativity burst forth once again.