When Voice is Lost

So, I've been having trouble finding my writing voice lately. When it comes to writing, there can be a myriad of reasons why a writer finds his or her inspiration lacking. For many, their writing is often born of a dark place within them. When they emerge from the shadowy, mental recesses, their creativity shrivels in the warmth that the light bears. Some have cited this as the reason for my literary silence as of late. While it's true that a good deal of my creative spark is born in darker flames, and that I have indeed been enjoying a happier existence these days, I honestly can't say that such happiness has particularly curtailed my creativity.

 

Stress, fatigue, distraction, and other priorities, all of which can be legitimate or misplaced, often cause a writer to set pen aside for periods of time.

 

So, what is it with me? All of the above, in parts? Something else entirely?

 

I honestly can't say.

 

And that bothers the ever living shit out of me.

 

I should be writing.

 

I need to be writing. Something is just… off when ideas aren't flowing freely through my mind. The upside, if there is one, is that when I unwittingly sail into these drafting doldrums, I tend to read instead. In the last several weeks I've devoured the first three books of The Dark Tower series, two of which I read upon their respective releases. I'm buried more than midway through the fourth book, now. I have several other books I recently purchased on deck, their spines aching to be cracked. But…

 

But.

 

I don't consider this passage I'm writing to you now to be true words, though comprised of letters, sentences, and paragraphs it may be. This is me journaling; this is my stream of consciousness escaping. This is me attempting to wade through the mire of my mind and discover why my wellspring has run to a trickle.

 

Part of me is acutely aware that there are things far more desiring and deserving of my attention lately, and of greater importance, than babbling through dancing fingertips on a keyboard. The obvious: my impending parenthood. Whereas my lack of creative bothers the ever living shit out of me, that, the notion of becoming a parent… that scares the ever loving shit out of me.

 

In a little over five months from now I will be a father. My world will cease to exist as I know it. The realm of my actuality, from that day forward, will include in it my progeny, my ward, my child. My purpose in this life will transform spectacularly, as I'll be blessed with the task of protecting, nurturing, loving, and teaching my child the simple art of existence. And my head swirls.

 

The baby will be so tiny, so fragile. What if I break it? What if I don't pay attention enough, or pay too much? Can I change a diaper and clean vomit or hold my crying child, helpless to assuage its pain? Holy fuck – Can I actually do this?

 

Of course I can. Common sense tells me I can. I am approaching this miraculous milestone later in life, at the age of forty-four, with the benefit of decades of experience, growth and maturity behind me. I should be at a decidedly pointed advantage in entering parenthood at this stage of life, yet here I am wondering if I'll squeeze my newborn too tightly, or if I'll ignore an obvious warning sign of distress.

 

The fact that the present course of our history is uncharted offers little in the way of comfort. We have an unstable president who's threatened to sabotage our health care system, one upon which I'll have to rely to ensure my child receives the care it requires. I am terrified of the consequence if Congress finally repeals the current health care laws and those near-sighted and frankly ignorant members of Congress implement their proposed plan barring coverage for preexisting conditions. What if my child is born requiring additional care? What if my child is predestined to be preconditioned? What then?

 

Or country is led by a madman ungrounded in reality, supported by ostriches with heads buried in the sand of betrothal to limited, specific and special interests contrary to those of the majority of people they purport to govern. This so-called leader has most recently threatened an equally unstable contemporary, one from which you cannot put past the possibility of nuclear warfare. 

 

And now we have Nazis marching in the streets and literally killing people on American soil.

 

This is world into which my child will be born - in a country where the elected leaders are so separated from reality that the care of our citizenry has become an afterthought, if it's truly thought of at all. And that too scares the shit out of me.

 

There are other parents facing the same reality. Yet those parents go on about their days, their lives, and accept those things they cannot change. Why can I not carry on without worry?

These are the things I think about.

 

Of course, I'm me, so I also ponder why I can't have a capybara as pet, why Goofy can speak and walk upright and Pluto cannot, even though they're both dogs, and why Canadian candy just tastes better than what we can get here in the States.

 

I wonder if I'll be a good parent, and I query which watch looks best with which pair of glasses.

 

I want to create a life of love for my child, but also desire to create a new sauce for my chicken wings.

 

I want to focus, yet my eyes twinkle at something shiny.

 

And I wonder why I can't write.

 

It will come back to me. It always does, this desire to write and create and imagine. But right now I'm preoccupied. I'm elated and saddened and joyous and fearful and oh look a puppy.

 

Yeah, such is my life.

 

Maybe I need some ideas. Maybe I need a push. Maybe I need to relax and worry less about finishing rebuilding my shed and think more about finishing a book, or three.

 

Perhaps I shouldn't think about writing at all and just let words come when they may. Because stopping a thought process is so easy for me. Hell, my inability to stop thinking is not only documented, it's diagnosed and treated. Yet, still, here I am wondering if I'm going to be a good father and why Superman and Batman suddenly became BFFs just because their mother's share the same first name.

 

I think too much. Always have, always will. And I've been doing an achingly extraordinary amount of it lately. Life changes. Career milestones. Financial planning. There is so much on my horizon right now that I can't envision that glowing line between present and future, where toady passes into oblivion and tomorrow awakes.

 

I don't know. What do you think? And I ask sincerely. Maybe your insight will release creativity from this oubliette into which my imagination has been imprisoned. Give me your thoughts, idea and suggestions. Maybe together we can erase this obscurity that's overtaken me.

 

Until then, I'll be thinking.

 

 

 

© 2017 J.J. Goodman. All rights reserved.