If I keep writing, something will come to me.
I guess my head just doesn’t want to spend a lot of time insisting that there’s nothing in it. There’s always something in there, and when I write that I have nothing to write about, that particular part of my mind leaps to the forefront, telling me that this is a lie. There are many things to write about, good and bad.
I could write another one of those posts about animals, this part of my mind says to me. Hugo, no doubt, has a great deal more to say; I can listen to him, and record his musings about life. And there are many other animals as well; my friend Joe has two black kittens, Kuma and Tora, and I can write about their thoughts on the nature of bad luck, and their innate desire to bring bad luck to others.
In fact, I could write about their disappointments at being total washouts in this area, because they seem to bring nothing but happiness and good tidings to Joe and his family. Perhaps this is a bitter disappointment to them; I should listen to what they have to say about such matters.
Or I could write about smoking, and how I’m burning something that was once alive, and taking it into my lungs. This is a terrible thing to do, and I know it’s taking a toll on my body. It feels great, though; often, things that are bad for me work that way.
I could write about Joe Kenda, whose show, “Homicide Hunter,” has become a favorite of mine. Whenever I watch this show, I’m struck by how blissfully unaware I am, most of my life, of the terrible things that are going on in the world. People do unthinkable, and there are people out there who are doing what they can to stop them; for this, I am grateful.
I could write about my love of Caffeine Free Diet Coke. This, too, is terrible for me. I love it; as I said, many things that are bad for me tend to work that way.
So I write, slowly tapping a bunch of words about how I have nothing to write about, and sooner or later, something comes to mind. The more that I write, the more this seems to happen.
Some days, those things are, unfortunately, buried deep within my mind. On those days, I am glad that there are days in which I write two or three essays, because then I can post one of those essays, and spend the day on my journal, writing about one random thing after another, and getting the words out that will lead to ideas for future essays and stories. Often, on these days, I feel as if I’m digging a hole looking for treasure, and have nothing to show for efforts but a pile of dirt.
I keep digging, though. I always tell myself that if I keep digging my shovel will hit something worth keeping. So far, that has been the case.
So I keep wading through those endless words that seem to amount to nothing, and imagine that the hole I’m digging is not composed of dirt, but of countless letters, all knotted together, forming words and sentences that I pull out of the ground. Occasionally, I like to think that when I do this, I will have turned and aerated the soil of those words, and that the following day, I will wake to see that something has sprouted from the soil I’ve tilled.
And throughout, every so often, I write what has turned out to be true, time and again: something will come to me.