Oh I'm not sure where to start today.  I am actually in this strange and awful place wherein I feel the need to write ... and write and write, just to get it out, you know?  And at the same time, ick, I just don't even want to hear my own damn voice.  I know from writing in school and writing for professional assignments, that it really helps me to just write, almost a stream of consciousness or to utilize writing prompts (I have a book I'm currently using with a topic or prompt for each day of the year).  The purpose of this type of writing is just to get all the gunk outta my head so that the real stuff, the real point and purpose of what I want to say can shine through.  Maybe it sounds nutty to some, but this is what works for me as a writer.  


I guess I'm in a bit of a writer's ... not a block exactly, but some kind of funk.  I suspect that even when I try, even when I think that I'm doing it, I am no longer writing or blogging authentically.  And in my opinion, if I'm not going to come on with it, as I describe that hard-hitting genuine writing that's so compelling in any sort of first-person narrative ... well, then just hang it up, geez.  You might be familiar with one of my favorite bloggers, Anna.  Before you click, if you haven't done so in the past, I will tell you that she is an admitted drug addict and she writes a completely honest and therefore completely graphic blog about ... everything that goes on in her life.  And I adore her.  I mean it.  Nope, I don't know the girl.  Don't know whether we'd ever be friends or even have anything to talk about if we met.   But as a blogger, she is the absolute shit in my eyes.  Because it doesn't matter what mental state she's in, doesn't matter what emotion she's feeling, what she's going through ... it's not about the external material for her writing.  It's her narrative, her explicit descriptions and reporting on what she feels and sees and thinks and wonders about ... she conveys her humanity quite exquisitely.  


I've written like that in my life before.  I'm not sure whether I ever did it as consistently as Anna, but I sure as hell came a lot closer to it than I'm doing now.  It's not just my blog, it's anything I write.  I have a Hub-Page, I write a journal, I do some writing exercises ... it's everything.  I'm off my game.  


This is depressing to write about.  I think the reason I'm off my writing game is that ... surprise surprise ... I'm just "off" in life.  Maybe I'm not facing things that I need to face.  Maybe I'm not living authentically.  Maybe I'm scared of a lot of things right now, and I'm allowing fear to stop me from writing and from living.  I think that on some level, I know that at least some of this is true.  And ya know what's pathetic?  It only makes me loathe myself.  I hate myself for it.  Every word that isn't what I want it to be, every single time that I see myself as a diminished version of the woman that I was or was becoming earlier in life ... that woman who I could right now definitely and confidently describe to you ... every time I think about the discrepancy between the two, I feel disgusted with myself.  That's it.  I knew if I wrote about it, I'd get to the bottom of it.  I hate where I am right now, hate what I'm doing with my gifts and my talents and the blessings of my life.