I've taken a look at my works (most of which are unreleased and should be due to lack of interest in finishing and lack of, well, "liking them") poems, lyrics, etc. and have found myself making the statement: It's good but does it inspire? Does it inspire? There are days where I would actually sit for hours, staring at the screen or a piece of paper wondering this same thing. That is, until now. Now I want to hit myself for these times. This is what kills writing, or, at least that's what I think now. That mentality of trying to make something a literary marvel rather than enjoying it and letting it be is, in many ways, as pretentious as those who view that piece of work as less than art. Now, I know I'm in no way a Langston Hughes incarnate (Though it would be nice to actually write something like he's offered over the years of the Harlem Rennaisance) or touched by the talented pen of Gwendolyn Brooks, I'll admit. But I enjoyed it. I enjoyed the critiques, the criticisms, no matter how harsh, and the accolades I got from people who actually enjoyed my work enough. But that statement has robbed what little love I had for writing poetry and stories. Could this be why I've gotten a block? Why my ideas, no matter how fleeting they may be, refuse to find their way to the pen when, previously, I could weave words without caring how they came out? When I came to this realization, I spoke with an English teacher of mine. Her in all of her Ph.D. knowledge just simply told me, "You think too damned much." She put it right. I guess, if anything, this is just a testament to how little I'm going to think before 'inspiration' strikes in the form of good ideas, stories or poems.
Peace easy, D.