Woke up on the edge of meaning. There’s a cliff by my bedside. The other is a wall. I want to sleep forever, but dreams desert me: like potions they demand raw ingredients, fresh kills under the sunlight. Taking a deep breath, I begin my daily fall.
Don’t think writing alone can chase away emptiness. Just keep it at bay?
My thinking is too geared towards goals and bottlenecks. “If I could just accomplish x, then life would be much better!” and I spend either effort doing x, or thinking about x. If I get a novel published, will my life be automatically more fulfilling? Yes, but life won’t automatically be… fulfilled.
But meaning can come from… the way I live my daily life. So what if the emptiness I feel is not from lack of progress on goals, but because only thinking about goals has bleached life of other opportunities for meaning?
Once one thing is somewhat fulfilled the mind quests for more. Once I go a few days of writing fiction every day, I think, what else can I be doing? Not that I should do something instead – but do something in addition to the just writing by myself. But perhaps it’s too early to think about that. Keep it up for a month more.
This “always desiring more” business – I like to think about its positive side. That it leads me to accomplish more than I would otherwise. But how can I make this tendency helpful rather than stressful?