What is this disquiet, this vague yet pervasive sense of unease of dissatisfaction, of amorphous desire?

Sometimes I think I was formed to be less than happy, less than tranquil, less than satisfied unless there is drama or extremity in my life. I am so inclined to boredom it seems and to a sense of tedium and ubiquitous triviality. So much seems tiresome, and yet at the same time, a well-made bed, a spotless house a beautifully prepared meal and even a single dish of fresh seasonal ingredients at their peak is enough to fill me with joy.

So then what is it that renders so many of my days meaningless and me so listless? What is it that saps my happiness? I would do well to know.

I’m thinking of my most recent rejections with the most encouraging feedback I’ve received. I wonder whether the ultrashort is my format. In reworking the foundation of a friend’s book, it is clear to me just how much I have learned in the past few years about structure and continuity, character and voice and pacing and so much more, and I can seer how far my own writing has come. But I cannot seem to hit the right publication and I wonder whether I have a book in me, though I know my material deserves one.

It is possible, even after a PhD, that I lack the tenacity and perseverance needed to produce a book. Certainly the feeling that I desperately need to let the book pour through and out of me is fleeting. I’m not frustrated or abandoned or unfulfilled when I fail to write. Not writing is so easy. And when I read as much as I do, the sense that I can’t write as well as those authors, never have, never will, swamps me. I wonder whether I truly have anything worthwhile to say. And yet.

Photo by Steve Johnson on Unsplash

Jan. 29, 2013

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