Writer’s Block

The Kidd is Dead

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I suppose I might as well make it official. There’s no sense in trying to hold on to what is passed. XanthusKidd is dead.

It was a painless death, I’d like to assume. Of course, I should know. I killed him.

I saw it coming quite a while back. The waning creativity and the slow declination in joviality were the first signs. The lack of an enthusiasm for writing–that outlet which he so loved–was an obvious identifier. He would sit and write and erase. Those cycles of endless blather faded into a void of forgotten thoughts as the words entered and exited the scene. The words that stayed did no justice to the intended meaning. Humor could not be had; perhaps it was not a thing which he could make.

I watched him as over and over he fought the monotony of existence. He could not exist apart form that which he created, and all too often, the creations he made would have nothing to do with him. I pitied his depression. I tried to help him, but to no avail.

Soon, he became a thing that was akin to a burden. He was there, but there he did nothing. No, that’s not true. I can tolerate a thing which exists for no reason, for nothing can truly have no reason from the outset. Perhaps a thing may have been made with no reason in mind, but the reason for its making cannot help but exist. A thing which was made to do nothing is still a thing with a purpose. A thing with a purpose that cannot be accomplished, however, this is a thing with which I take issue. The reason for keeping a thing which has lost its purpose is harder to justify than for a thing having no known purpose at all.

So, in the silence of some night somewhere, the Kidd became no more. I shan’t dwell on the details; they’re hardly worth noting. He didn’t struggle. It seems he recognized his time. Perhaps he even welcomed it.

I’ll miss him.

Chris

 

 

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My Blog Has Holes in It (How else do I explain all these drafts)

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I’m hoping WordPress will address this issue soon. My blog has some gigantic holes in it. I logged in today to find drafts everywhere. No sooner than I had finished filling in my password, did I feel a stiff breeze coming out of my computer screen. It knocked over several of the items on my desk, and I’ve lost a bunch of papers that simply flew away. This is unacceptable.

I just can’t explain the origin of all these drafts. Every time I start to write another post, another draft pops up, and I can’t seem to get anything published. Quite ridiculous, really.

Just the other day I started to write what I knew would be an absolutely superb piece on the moral dilemma that faces us when we are forced to make hard decisions. I got distracted by something in the other room, and I had to walk away from my blog. Somebody must have poked a hole in my site while I was away because there it was: another draft. Such Drafts

I think this all started way back when I tried to write a post about a rubber ducky. I smelled some pop tarts cooking in the other room, and I simply had to go find the source. My blog just hasn’t been the same since.

Fairie Tales, (trying to be) funny stories, inane antics, and completely ridiculous anecdotes, nothing seems to be able to get to that revered published state… I’ve combed through them all, looking for a way to maybe plug the hole and kill the draft, but nothing seems to work. I’ve tried rubber bands, chewing gum, duct tape, and even a few pots of coffee, but none of them solved my issue. I’m hoping that I can get this resolved soon.

I’m starting to think that this might be a problem with the whole blogging world. I’m certain that it’s not a problem with me. I’ll deny to the bitter end. I mean, I’ve been accused of procrastination before, but this is a structural problem, I’m almost certain of it. Brrr… It’s starting to get kinda cold in here. 

In the mean time, I think I’m going to… wait, someone’s at the door. I’ll finish this later. 

~ XK

 

Writing for all the Right Reasons

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For what reasons do I write? Who knows! I’d like to say I write to right the writing rites of rightfully written right rite rights, but that really wouldn’t make much sense.  

Writing, for me, is an extension of myself, in that it represents the less-inhibited, non-verbal, expressive social arena in my life.  Translation: you’re reading what I would say to you if I were perhaps more talkative.

I write how I feel, and my mood influences and often dictates content, style, and probably quality. While I usually don’t blog on personal matters, my life still heavily influences my writing. When I am happy, my blog posts are likely to be light-hearted or simply crazy. When I am feeling down, I very likely will not even post anything, but if I do, you can expect it to be melancholic or drab. When I am feeling tired, as I often do these days, one really can’t predict how my blatherings will read. Perhaps I’ll craft a masterpiece, but I really do doubt it. 

Lately, I have been tired, down, and ever so slightly bored with everything. Everything that I’ve tried writing has turned into an unfinished draft. That which I’ve completed has been terribly dark, and nothing has been incredibly interesting. No one seemed interested in my essay on the compensation for the incremental increases in effective circumference when using ribbon with a winch system… 

I’m not sure if it’s Writer’s Block or Something Worse. I suppose I’ll figure it out eventually.

Now that I’ve bored you to tears with my own story, I have a question for you;  how do you write? How greatly does your mood affect your writing ability?

Cheers,
Chris