UNREQUITED WRITING

For me, there is one thing that is worse than unrequited love: It is unrequited writing.

Yes, I have had unrequited love in my life, more times than I care to count (or even try to remember). There, the passing of the years has lent feelings of nostalgia to these past events. I can even rationalize that I am a wiser person for those experiences, perhaps even a better lover and a better person.

The number and variety of incidents of unrequited love pale to insignificance compared with the number, variety, intensity, duration and repetition of unrequited writing experiences.

Egad! Zounds! Gadzooks! What emotions. What frustrations. What a misery of mind and body this endless repetition "visits" upon me.

Notice how I transfer the source of the emotion away from me with the use of the term "visits." How clever and convenient. This places the blame outside of me, perhaps on the shoulders of the Muse of Writing (or some-such mythical beastie).

In sober and reflective moments, however, I am fully aware that the only one to blame is me. It is the sloth and the procrastination, the interfering lifestyle, the paralysis that comes from the dual fears of "success and failure" that keep me in the turmoil of unrequited writing.

Maybe I am a masochist. Maybe, deep down in the depths of my unconscious mind (if there is such a thing), I enjoy the emotional turmoil and the mental self-flagellation. Could it be?

How about you? Do suffer from a similar syndrome? If so, what are its dimensions, dynamics, causes and cures for you? Maybe your reflections can help me rid myself of this most vexing curse.