I simply can not go through this again. Twenty six blogs, only thirteen weeks. Each blog an exercise in desperation, overdue from inception, straining to appear as if it belongs to its letter, striving for freshness and reader appeal. Reader? What reader? Probably no reader at all. Perhaps a little lost web-surfer, confused and in haste, will trigger the click-counter. Or perhaps not.
A. So many words begin with A. None of them makes me burst into a gusher of creativity. Animals, apt sayings, amazing memoirs – more like Alzheimers, I fear. Anxiety grips me, as usual. As usual, I tell myself there’s no use worrying about that. Will mental judo work? Can I conquer my fears by embracing them? No, I’m no Woody Allen, I can not make a career out of amusing self-deprecation, an itemization of my inadequacies. Apart from anything else, I lack his natural advantage of Jewishness. I could no more match him in suicidal introspection than I could match a Scotsman in frugality.
But words must be written, keys must be tapped, page must be filled, soul must be cruelly revealed. And it is empty. I am soul-less, thoughtless, a meaningless zero in a world of ‘One’s.
That’s two hundred words already. Maybe that will pass muster – if anyone reads them. Surely nobody will care enough to count. I can post and slink away. Next time, half a week away but already upon me, it will be a mere twenty five blogs to go, one down. Deep down. My writer’s block may be gone by then; but probably not.
B for block? Is that a positive start. Better, at least? Bravo! I’m starting to look forward to the letter B.
Copyright 2017 Flight of Eagles