I have realized something about myself. It wasn't an epiphany, but more of the slow and gradual dawning of a thought. And it is this: that I have no resolve.
It's not a huge realization. A lot of people don't have resolve. But this fault came to mind very clearly as I was reading a few blogs of friends of mine. I marvel at how they always seem to have a topic to write about, and when they do, well, they write.
And then I thought, "Well, I have topics. I think of things all the time." But then I asked myself, "So where are all my blogs?"
Here's the answer. They are floating around somewhere in my head; still in there, but too far back to call into existence. I don't write things down when they come to me, but leave them to stew and in doing this, lose them. I used to fantasize that my brain had a stenographer, and everything I thought could be filed away somewhere, verbatim, to be looked at and expanded upon later. I used to wonder where all my lost thoughts went. Because I do a lot of my writing in my head. I work out a sentence or a paragraph until it sounds perfect. But if I don't ever get it written down then.... poof. Gone. It could have been the beginning of story, an essay for school, or just another introspective blog. But I tend to trust too much to my memory, and expect that it will hold on to this one, even if all evidence suggests otherwise.
So, obviously, the inspiration is not the problem. I've been writing since I was.... phh, who even remembers the age? I do, however, remember the first story I wrote. It was a complete rip-off of the Goosebumps episode, Night of the Living Dummy, except instead of Slappy, we had a possessed computer. I also remember the first story I wrote that wasn't plagiarized. It was the tale of a bunny, whose name was supposed to be Flop, but his mother handwriting on the birth certificate was so bad (hey, they always told us, write about what you know!) that his name went into the record books as Frog. I don't really remember the plot, but I do remember that Frog's arch nemesis was a squirrel, named Delhi. I also remember how proud I was when I finished, printed it off, and showed everyone what I had done.
To be inspired, perchance to finish? Ay, there's the rub. (Oh, someone take Hamlet away from me...) See, there's no real shortage of ideas of here. It's the motivation I lack. Ask me how many things I've started, never to be finished. (I'm just kidding, don't ask me, I'll only get depressed.) Anyway, it's a lot. Notebooks full of scribbled on paper. Megabytes full of word documents. I know how wonderful it feels to finish something, so why don't I? I lose interest somewhere in the middle, unfortunately.
This blog wasn't to whine on about my flaws, but hopefully to call attention to something that has always been in the back of my mind, and now that it's at the forefront, perhaps do something about. Push myself.
If I can find the motivation.