Writing isn’t easy. Not for everyone. And writing can get hard for those who like to do it. You don’t start out writing with the expectation that others will read you, but somewhere along the line that becomes a measure of the worth, and the over-identification of that worth with self-worth means when you get no readers the piece has no worth, and therefore neither do you.
I have read this week that there is a freedom in having no one read you – that you should take it as a chance to write what-the-fuck-ever, but that seems to be something you can say at leisure when you are assured that people are reading you. When no one reads all the stuff you churn out but you have some urge to keep dumping it into the toilet-bowl of your website, then freedom to write anything seems about as inspiring as word-a-day toilet paper.
Politics – who are you writing for? If you’re a liberal it’s choir preaching time … forget engaging Republicans with the ideas you hold dearest. Republican? Liberals wonder if you’re insane and aren’t listening.
Poetry – other poets like it.
Fiction – meh – and science fiction – where do you get your ideas from? BS pseudo science.
Maybe it is burn out – the length of the rope I dangle at the end of has got progressively shorter. I want to write as much as I want an equally spaced violent punch in the nuts. But it keeps pulling me back, even though the fun has drained.