Echoes In The Mind

I’ve discovered a new British show called Wire in the Blood. It’s based on novels by a Scottish crime novelist named Val McDermid. I’ve not read the books yet, but they are said to be very graphic and very good. Well, my main obsession is not only the show, but character of Dr. Tony Hill who is played by British actor Robson Green. Don’t ask me why. I just find the character very interesting and sexy. (The actor isn’t too bad either.)

Isn’t that just the teensiest bit sad. What I wouldn’t give to develop a character like that. (Don’t all jump in the gutter right now. There isn’t room enough for all of you AND me in here.)

That’s enough blogging for now. I think I’m almost caught up with my quota.

Sheesh… bloggers should not let other bloggers blog early in the morning.

My moods on my ability to tell a story change like the weather. One moment it’s all sunny and light, not a cloud in the sky. The next it’s like I live in a monsoon. Darkness abounds and threats of a tsunami give an overwhelming feeling of dread.

I mean the post before the Apathy one was all hope. I had written a few lines of something worth telling. Which, I realize is the problem. This Apathy. (Yes, it deserves to be capitalized.) This fear of caring has me paralyzed with blank page-itis. I keep analyzing every little nugget of crap that runs out of my fingers like some…. well you get the picture (or maybe you rather wouldn’t). Perhaps, I should stick with the weather metaphor. It has a much nicer smell to it.

So I sit here rambling away. Doing anything but storytelling. (Shut up to the peanut gallery who is thinking, “You could be writing something important right now. You’re wasting time.) Yes, I know that. But realize this, I might know what I am doing.

“What is that?” you might ask. Well, I am trying to change the weather.

What does that mean you ask? It means simply this – I have no feeling for writing anymore. Of course what I am doing now is a form of writing, but this is more like writing a to-do list. So perhaps I should say that I have no feeling, no desire that is, for storytelling. No matter how much I miss it.

I have thousands of ideas and characters running through my mind – visiting my dreams almost every night. I just don’t care enough about them to tell their stories. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because once someone told me I couldn’t write. Maybe it’s because once someone told me I could.

The fear of accomplishment is as much a danger as the fear of failure, maybe more so. Succeeding means being known. Having people know me and of me scares me more than anything. Scares me enough not to care.

Apathy. Perhaps it isn’t just the absence of caring, but the fear of caring.