Writing is hard

I’m writing this post to get myself out of a funk. I’ve not published a post since January, though I’ve had a few ideas knocking around.

One was a review of Cormac McCarthy’s latest work, the two volumes of The Passenger and Stella Maris. I finished the books in February and began researching other reviews and read chunks of scholarly books about McCarthy that I thought might help.

Another was on the nature of Friendship. My friend and former roommate, Timothy, is opening a bookstore-&-bar called Clio’s, and wants to do some public programming on that theme. So I figured I’d develop some thoughts on the topic.

It’s not like I haven’t been thinking and writing. I helped organize a panel at the first LFIConf in February, and wrote a talk for SRECon23 AMER in March. But the main blocker to my writing has been my reading.

I read too much. I’m in like 4 different book clubs, plus I have side books that I’m working through on my own. I enjoy the reading and the book clubs are regular social gatherings. But it leaves little time for me to get drafts and little spurts out, let alone develop them, or to revise stuff I’ve written in the past.

So I’m dashing this off to get myself to write. To acknowledge how difficult it is for me, and how I can do it anyways if I make it a priority. Hopefully I can find something other than this self-reflection to write about soon.