Not writers' block...

It's pitiful, really, what I have tried to do with writing. Every piece I write seems so poor when compared to the most simple blog out there. I think I remember how it stopped, my facility for writing. I was writing like a maniac a couple of summers ago, filling in Moleskines like they were going out of style. Everything I wrote that summer was from hand to paper; that is to say, I wrote about everything that came to mind. Personal essays, short stories that went nowhere, paragraphs that ended for no particular reason as if standing in front of a cliff. That was the summer of my writing days. Now I am trying the best I can to keep this blog going. I can't think of anything to write. Perhaps I am thinking too much about it. I know I am not doing myself a favor by comparing my writing to what is going on out there, but I feel the need to believe that what I write is good, at least good by my standards. Lowering standards is not an issue with me. Some times I think I should just write one sentence a day so as not to be overwhelmed with the pressure of producing more. It's not writers' block. I think it is more that I want to write about so many things that I can't narrow it down. For example, I want to write some essays on Paul Auster's "Collected Prose," but I can't seem to narrow down on a single piece. I find myself dabbing at little pieces like the one on the poem but no more than that. Could my desk be the problem? My desk is a total mess. I don't feel comfortable at it anymore. One thing I have made up my mind to do is to de-clutter it to the way it was before when I lived in Lakewood. I have some pictures and wonder how it came to be the way it is now. I need to begin somewhere so that's where I will begin. With the move to the new house looming this coming week, I think this might be what I need to break this stoppage of work on my part.