The thing college English professors will always tell you is that to get better at writing, you must write. Constantly. The past couple of days have been great because I felt the Muse burning inside me. I felt the words coming to me. Right this minute though, I’d rather be playing Baldur’s Gate: Enhanced Edition or watching a movie or playing Magic: the Gathering. I don’t feel like I have anything to say just now, and it would be so much easier to wait until I did.
This moment, then, I am forcing myself to write. Write about what? About not wanting to write, or at least not feeling inspired to write! It feels like I’m rambling, that I’m trying to get blood from a stone, and that I’m not really communicating anything at all. I want to be good at writing though, and I don’t want to lapse for weeks at a time as I wait for the Muse’s return. The last time I did that, I waited for years.
I don’t know why it feels easy to write sometimes and other times it feels burdensome. Perhaps the Muse will come back this very evening, and I’ll have loads to say, both on this blog and on my more polished, tongue-in-cheek blog http://lordrumfish.wordpress.com/. Now that I’m writing again I can’t let it go without a fight. Part of the very fiber of my being is the need to create, whether that’s creating a game, a written work, a song, or even some fabricated object. I will write; I must write.
The hardest thing by far is writing a poem when you don’t feel inspired. If you’ve ever taken a poetry class or just had an English assignment you have probably felt this pressure. Writing a poem when I feel uninspired gives me a dirty, forced feeling, like I’m turning a urinal upside-down and calling it art (all in jest, Andy Warhol). Despite this, I will try to write something today. As an added challenge (might as well), I’m going to write a Spenserian sonnet.
When in Night’s dark embrace I am alone,
and hopeless love in vain I quest to seek,
each sighing of the wind becomes a moan,
and heartache robs my strength and leaves me meek.
Oh, can I wait for hope even a week?
An OkCupid match to find in time,
or is my prospect yet to follow bleak,
and none shall come to couple with my rhyme?
For my love ‘s no thing of beauty, but sublime
a tempest tossing kisses in a storm;
despite this, all I truly wish to find
are eyes of kindness and a heart that’s warm.
For though despair may rend and humor mocks,
hope springs eternal from Pandora’s box.