I'm discovering more and more lately that boredom leads not to inspiration, but to extreme laziness.
Let's ascribe to the theory that one could potentially write the next great American novel over any given length of time. Well, if that's all they thought about, and locked themselves into a room with a typewriter or a computer and worked on nothing but that, they'd accomplish it. However, throw life and distractions and children and divorce and new relationships and other, more complicated shit as this person, and they'll eventually turn to their typewriter and say "Aw, fuck it."
That's very well where I'm at right now.
Look, nobody's reading this, which is why it's a bit theraputic for me to write here. I think the pressures of writing something that people will eventually read are too much for me. I think that, somewhere deep in my subconscious, being successful at writing means I would eventually be happy, and my subconscious doesn't want me to be happy. I think I have three or four or eleventeen story ideas at the moment that I can't seem to get out, like being constipated and unable to pass anything. Now it's turning into a gall stone and while I can feel it moving, it hurts like a bitch and I don't want to have anything to do with it.
Writer's block or laziness? Is it that life is distracting, or is it that life is more appealing?
I dunno. More later.