My inspiration bucket is empty. So is my bucket that usually has at least a modicum of belief that my life is going anywhere, and that what I’m doing can lead to something that even vaguely resembles fulfillment. Stepping out of history? Doesn’t feel like it today. Today it feels like I’m still steeped in the bloody stuff.
55 and trying to pursue childhood dreams. Is that a dumb thing to do? Is there any point to writing this blog? Will my script when it’s finished be any good, will anyone want to make it into a film? Will my other script ever see the light of day? Or will I be one of those – oh this is a bad road to go down. Aaargh.
Last month my blog had the best stats I’ve ever had, and I felt sure I’d turned a corner, fame and fortune were on the horizon, coming inexorably closer. This month? A quarter of that, for no reason that I can discern. So? You’d think it wouldn’t matter, it’s just a nebulous number anyway. Let me tell you, it matters, it makes you feel like you’re at least a bit connected to the world outside of yourself. I suppose this is a taste of what it feels like for somebody who gets really famous and enjoys the spotlight for a few precious years, then is tossed aside as the next candidate enters the arena, younger, more beautiful, sexier, better connected, more talented.
Well, I don’t know what it means. I don’t know why people sometimes read in droves and then not at all. Maybe this month is blog-readers’ holiday. I don’t know why my life has panned out this way, why it’s taken me so long to get to a place where I could really start doing something about my dreams. Don’t know the why of anything actually. I guess it’s just one of those days. Even the idea of dark yummy chocolate isn’t exciting.
About the best I can do is be real. Today is a day I let myself falter.
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