I stopped writing a while back.
It was a dry spell that lasted about thirteen years. And I don’t mean that I stopped writing fiction, or war stories, or poems, I mean I stopped writing anything other than checks. Letters, thank you cards, class notes and term papers; when I did manage to scribble out of necessity it would have given a seizure to a handwriting analyst, giddy at the thought of so much anger, lust, and futility under such a misleading heading: To Do.
The contributing factors to my malaise, if it was that, and it seems unfair to lupus sufferers and Scientologists, among others, to call it that, Santa, were at least as numerous and varied in relevance as the clauses in this sentence. The real problem was that I had no reason to write, no inner voice to write with, and no one to hear the proverbial tree fall on the proverbial cat in the box.
Email changed things a little. I was late to the craze, forced to get an account by a forward-looking employer. Then came Internet dating, in which writing could overcome photogenics… the shy person’s dream. Little by little, other people were noticing the trees falling.
And then there was Myspace, which was described to me as a better dating tool, but which also happened to be a better writing tool. Suddenly I had a lot to say, probably too much, and much of it took up too much of my time. I had to develop a separate account and blog just for political material, and spent hours researching and fact checking and refuting others and uploading pictures and, and, and. And it seemed a bit like high school sometimes, which I didn’t Do particularly well.
So I stopped writing a while back.
It’s been about three years, I think. I don’t really know.