If you're a writer, maybe you are familiar with the dreaded bookstore malaise. You know how sometimes, in mid-browse, you are suddenly overtaken with the strong sense that the world doesn't really need another book, especially not yours? All those shiny jackets, fawning blurbs, and beautiful words seem so sufficient. And really, you're not exactly Jane Austen, or the next MacArthur genius, are you?
I have recently stepped up my readership in the blogosphere. Perhaps a mistake.
Today, I have that sucked-out, flattened, so-so-many-books feeling about my blog posts. With all these ideas, and stories, and images and sentences swirling around in hyperspace, what difference can it possibly make if I manage to crank out another post? I feel redundant. Cliche. Superfluous.
I suppose it's temporary.
I've always managed to recover from the bookstore thing. And gone on to scribble, fairly relentlessly, if not yet to a satisfactory conclusion.
When my children have denigrated their talents, I have attempted to buttress their spirits with the example of a profusion of flowers. Or of snowflakes. No two alike. Each one having its part to play, its contribution to make in the bouquet, or the blizzard.
Tonight, my small effort is this self-questioning post. This reaction to the multitude of online commentary in which I've been immersed. This dark night of the blogger's soul.