Chicago, IL – I’ve been writing for a while in different locations. Lately I’ve taken experimental stabs at Substack, Tiny Letter, and a not-online journal. Each one is a piece of something, but the parts do not yet seem to make a whole. In this pandemic time, I seem to lack a muse.
Rosehill Cemetery
There are other names for this sensation, but I think it stems from one thing – isolation, especially from nature. Being in Chicago for the past two months has led me to understand that I need that connection to nature perhaps more than I realize. The best I can do here is walk in the nearby cemetery – Rosehill Cemetery – which has a fantastic natural feel to it. Yet it’s not quite enough. Perhaps the lack of a natural setting combined with not being in my own space is sort of a one-two punch when it comes to this lack of inspiration.
I’ve always been someone who generally tends to improvise, so to speak. It’s probably why I like short-form writing more so than anything that takes time. I can be inspired to write an essay, or a journal entry, or a haiku, and when I get that inspiration, it does not take long to write the piece. Even this essay has been essentially inspired by recent thoughts, particularly about the fact that haikus have not been coming to me in the way they were even a year ago. I think that lack of inspiration is the most telling – the inability to feel haikus. When my view is an alley, and my daily walks are surrounded by headstones and grave markers, perhaps my sense of inspiration has gone dry. Spontaneity requires stimulation, and at least for the two months I have been in Chicago, stimulation has been lacking.
And truthfully, so has motivation. The ongoing pandemic and “shelter in place” routine has begun to sap me of motivation. Winter does that as well. So has living in a small apartment space (which is not truly small, but not as spacious-feeling as a house). All these things have combined to snuff out inspiration and motivation. Without these two elements, how does one write anything worthwhile?
There is one victory – I write every day now. Somewhere. It is now a habit of mine to sit down with my morning coffee and write. Something. Somewhere. I was even going to take this morning off, but I found I could not. I made my coffee, grabbed a muffin, and here I am banging away at the computer keyboard, writing this essay about how writing has become difficult. Perhaps it’s just the haikus I miss the most (I do miss those. It’s not for lack of trying.). Perhaps it’s because the ultimate goals of writing are not clear yet for me. What are my strengths as a writer? What’s my best form? What would be my best subject? All of these questions linger there, waiting for answers. I also wonder if, at my age, it’s already too late. Would I have been a better writer 15 years ago, when I was more sure of myself and my viewpoints?
If a muse serves any purpose, it’s to provide motivation during dry times. I had come to think that nature was serving as my muse, and perhaps I’ve been right about that. But the last half of 2020 was tough to get through; my mind was unsettled, and to some degree still remains so. I always get this sense that I have to wait until a certain period of time passes, such as when I finally get back home. Then I can be more creative. But deep down I really don’t think that’s true. I suspect writers have their own tricks to get through dry times, but of course one of them is to keep writing – something, anything. So far I’ve been successful at that, and perhaps while drifting down this particular river I’ll arrive somewhere where inspiration is a little more abundant. I’d like to feel again what it’s like to write a few good haikus. -twl