Sometimes my mind is all aflame with grand themes and portentous analysis that I worry over in my mind for days and simply must tell you about. Notes pile up in my pockets and I type late into the evening, feeling just like one's supposed to feel like as a writer, all gritty and impassioned. Things go pretty well, and though the clock on new blog posts never stops ticking for a one-post-a-day writer like myself, the fish are biting and I have have no compunction about throwing back all sorts of ideas that aren't worthy of my flashing genius.
And then, sometimes, the waters get a little played out. I'll take just about anything to write about. I make a poor, absurdist joke at the front desk of my library about how great it would be if all the books on my cart were the same book. My co worker laughs politely. She probably didn't even hear me correctly, though things have been better lately with her new hearing aide, but, either way, good enough for me! As soon as I can I'll type it up into a blog post. Beggars can't be choosers. I limp from post to post searching for flotsam. There is nothing. When I write I hear a scraping noise. Can you hear that scraping noise? No?
I hear a scraping noise.
Here is another pendulum for you (besides the one that swings from fecundity to aridity): Sometimes you, the audience is all in my mind. I think of all the people who will be pleased by my little essay, I think about its impact. I lean, further and further and further, and then, just before I tumble over I catch myself.
I go back to my basement, and I write this beautiful thing:
Nothing here matters.