I was doing pretty well at writing before my accident. Writing most every day, meeting goals, making progress, blogging and creating… but then I got hurt and couldn’t write hardly at all. I’ve healed pretty quickly and I can type almost comfortably again, but I find myself completely unmotivated.
Yesterday I watched anime almost all day, and last night and this morning I tried to generate some new ideas for writing. I don’t need new ideas, because I have a ton of old ideas. I’m over 40 notes in Evernote in just a week, most of which are separate ideas for things to write. But I’ve got nothing I particularly want to write right now. Either it bores me, or I don’t want to do it.
I hate that most of my ideas for stories are dark, morbid, and somewhat horrific. An old acquaintance of mine committed suicide last week, and I’m not sure how I feel about it. Obviously, I’m upset, and sad in a general sort of way, because I came so close to that path myself and now view suicide as a wasteful action… but he and I weren’t close, not even enough to call him a friend. Acquaintance is the best I can do if I’m honest.
I remember him smiling, talking with him downtown or at debate tournaments, and how nice he was to me. He was smart, and we got along well. I wish I had known him better.
Last night I began writing a story about a robot whose scientist-creator uploaded a new memory into her every day. Each day was another horrible recollection, memories forced onto her of war, cruelty, rape, murder… until she wanted to commit suicide. For a human, we can usually balance the horror against the good experiences we have had, and our mental gymanstics allow us to believe that things are mostly OK in the end. We can deal with it. When that equation goes the other way, we cannot.
The last time I had a really good time writing was at Kaldi’s on Battlefield, a relatively new coffee shop to Springfield, so I think I might go back there. Like Abraham returning to his altar between Bethel and Ai, maybe I can find my direction again from that place. Maybe a new path will its present itself, or at the least maybe I can start walking again. My bone is healing on the outside, but something on the inside isn’t quite right. I may not be wearing a sling, but I’m still broken.