Usually I can get a few lines in my head that I think sound good. I write them down. And then I can carry that on for perhaps a page...all the while thinking 'ok, this is going ok.' Then if I lift my head up out of that immediate world, even just for a moment, and I realise that what I'm doing is just terrible and pointless. Even if I could perfectly capture a scene in some way, or convey a particular feeling...what's the point? What's the objective of the exercise?
I often have this feeling in me of wanting to write. But I know that it will spiral into that wondering about the essential pointlessness of the activity. And so it's easier not to start at all.
I know I'm not the first one to wonder about this. It's not even the first time I've wondered about this. But right now the feeling is so strong. It's entirely possible that the entire driving force behind my own persistence with writing is the worry that if I can't do it then my life really doesn't have anything in it. I don't want kids or a husband. I don't want a career. So what? I just drift aimlessly and accept that in all probability my writing isn't that good at all and even if it was good then I still wouldn't be able to come up with a reason why it would be useful to show it to other people.
It's easier to just go to the gym and watch TV and work and sleep and try to do anything but think about these things. And yet....while I do those things, some deeply burried nerves are plucked like taught violin strings. They itch, but there's no surface on my body that can be scratched to calm them. Do something. Do something. Do something. That's all the plucking brings in terms of tune. Do something.