This morning, I read a blog post by Annie Mueller entitled "What's It Like To Lose Your Sex Drive". I've followed her writing for a while, and this post seemed quite different from her previous material.
It got me thinking.
What's my writing style?
In one word: stale.
In one sentence: there's not enough juice let alone narrative to capture the essence of what I'm trying to say.
In one paragraph: I never intended to confine my writing to blog posts. For a long time — too long — I've harboured the desire to write a memoir, more poetry and something around wisdom/elderhood/growing old; but I've never felt that I'm possessed of the writing armoury to make it happen.
Does this matter?
I show up; I try my best; and something always emerges.
Well, yes, actually it matters a lot. Not in the sense I'm trying to be someone other than I am, but I want to feel that I've worked hard to achieve the very best expression of an idea, story or poem and not thrown things on a page for the sake of it. That said, I need to consider my putative reader and ask myself: what is it that I'm trying to say? It wouldn't hurt, once in a while, to adopt a more improv-led approach where I write in the style of someone else or write on a subject that I've never written about before. Better still, to write a few stories — I'd love to do something akin to the film Waterworld but based on a different 'we-are-all-doomed' narrative.
I should add that writing is still a great pleasure, and that's particularly the case given that I didn't come to it until I was 43.
All I can do though is keep trying and, hopefully, with a bit of luck, I might find a new style or at least an improved one to express my ideas in a way that more deeply connects with my eternal essence.
Thanks again for taking the time to read these posts. It means so much to me.
Blessings, and much love.