Got your attention? Want to donate to my cause? Read this post, and then leave your best advice in the comments. Those are the kind of donations I need right now.
I wish this post was about “How Aimee Got Her (Writing) Groove Back,” but it isn’t, dammit. I’ve lost my writing mojo. The sauce is gone. Or at least the bottle is empty. And I’m not quite sure where to get a refill. It’s so frustrating.
I want to write, I do, but I’m feeling a little lost. Like, what should I write about? “There are almost too many things to choose from,” said no one ever. Except me. But that’s a lame excuse. I know.
I even took a class with my favorite writer for a month early this past summer to help, but now I really feel stuck. Blocked. My writer thingy might be broken, even. I need a coach and teammates to keep me going it seems.
And school started, and it’s going really well, even though I have four preps, but I want to try out some new ideas, and that’s making me think, and that’s exhausting. On top of that, whenever I have a free moment, I’m tracking down a grandbaby to come hang out with me, so that I—Mimi—can get my fix. And that’s exhausting, too.
(Stream of consciousness moment: did you know that Google thinks that “mojo” is cocaine but Webster’s says it’s magic or charms? Hmmm. Weird.)
But maybe I’m just trying too hard. Maybe thinking about what I want my next published piece to look like, to read like, to sound like, might be the exact opposite way to get the writing to happen. Because it can’t get published if it doesn’t get written first, Aimee. I know, I know.
And maybe, just maybe, all the rejections (or worse, all the not hearing back AT ALL) I’ve gotten from sites where I want my pieces to be published should be ignored. Maybe then something will stir and work its way to the page/screen.
It’s frustrating, though. It’s like the loud speaker in my classroom is screaming at me: “AIMEE. NO ONE WANTS TO READ YOUR THOUGHTS OR WRITING. REPEAT, NO ONE.” And then I find my way to my rocking chair, slump down in it, and think about how I used to write. And how I used to love it.
Interruption. Light is beaming at the end of this dark tunnel, of which I have no concept of length: I am teaching a college-level beginner’s creative writing course this semester, and my students are, wait for it. . .
TEENAGERS. My people. Those who sorta “get” me. Those who sorta inspire me. Those who make me believe in me. Most of the time.
Maybe they’ll coach me. Maybe they’ll cheer me on. Maybe I’ll get my mojo back.
So stay tuned. This could get interesting. And by “this,” I mean keeping track of what happens in the classroom here, on this blog.