What do I write about?

It’s been nearly a year since my last post. I’ve been asked by a grand total of 1 person as to why I haven’t written lately. Why ? Writer’s block? A lack of time?

I silently nod to no-one but me. I am still nodding along trying to think of the next sentence, or even where this post is going.

My writing process is never cerebral. It’s usually emotional,clueless and often times, headed to the recycle bin after numerous strained attempts at clarity, or sanity even.

I stare blankly at my screen, occasionally switching tabs to check Facebook.

It gets even more complicated due to the demands of school and work. The very little time I am left with to do something creative, I sleep. Because that’s what grad-students do. They come home and sleep. But today I had this rampant, almost violent urge to write. I just had to write something down and post it. I had to give something to the world and then forget about it. I had to get it out of my system. Which explains this mess.

Stares at wall for 5 minutes. It’s yellow.

This urge. Where do I direct it? WHAT DO I WRITE ABOUT? Your guess is as bloody well good as mine. Do I write about this wonderful podcast about co-incidences I listened to today? (This American Life, if you’re wondering). Do I write about how one person out of every five I make acquaintances with knows someone from my family? Even here in the US? But that doesn’t seem to have a lot of depth or potential to write about,does it?

Just said ‘Meh’ to myself.

Or do I write about how I recently discovered the genius that is Neil Gaiman? About how I see so much of what I wanted to be, in him? About how even I want to write for a living and still be married to a rock-star? About how I’ve gone through every video of his on YouTube and how I’m swallowing every post of his online journal? But I’m afraid that would just be the story of my unfulfilled potential. Lots of sad stories in the world as it is, yes?

Checks his website for updates.

Ooh, I thought up a horror story about the kid who lives upstairs and runs all around his apartment at night; the noise travelling through the floorboards and disturbing my sleep. Every night. Unfailingly. How about that, eh? About how I thought up this theory that he doesn’t actually exist, and that he’s a forlorn spirit, condemned to run around the halls of Apartment 8 (good title, yes?) till oblivion? It took me a good 5 minutes to realize that I would have to sacrifice even more sleep to make that even half as interesting a story, as it sounded in my head.

I yawn.

How about a poem? A poem about how a single eyelash came loose and fell on my hand. About how it took me back to my childhood…er no. Stop. Jeez. My blog has enough nostalgia and maudlin regrettable writing as it is.

I yawn some more and pop my knuckles. And then I realize..

I’ve actually written something! Nonsensical, whimsical and downright flimsy, but something that I wrote. After a year. Ironically, about how I’m out of blog-worthy ideas.

I gape. For quite a while.

This feels like bliss,relief and exhaustion all rolled into one. I am probably not going to read this ever again. But I am undeniably happy. Happy that I finally wrote. About nothing, and about everything.