Writers' Block

I've been suffering from an unfortunate and perhaps incurable condition: writers' block. Current romantic interest asked me last night - "Just why is it that you keep a blog online?" and my only response could be that it is the last possible outlet of creativity that can possibly keep the pile of mush that is my brain ticking over. It is not that I don't want to write - I do! - I'm just constantly barraged by soul-sucking thoughts of self-doubt, followed by the thought "I have nothing to write about!". It's the mental version of constipation.

Maddening as it is, I am sat in bed, again, writing late at night, as is becoming increasingly habitual, just so that I can write about nothing. Marvellous. My three readers (they're almost infamous now - though I still cannot articulate exactly who they are) must have begun to think my prose had dried up entirely, so long it has been since my last long, self-obsessed ramble. Alas, no, I am breaking my silence in order to write about absolutely bugger all, because in my view, it is impossible for me to write anything without it sounding completely Holden Caulfield-phoney. I simply do not have enough life experience to provide a valid judgment on any aspect of anything - especially if it involves underwear choice or being optimistic. 

It is the most infuriating thing, as I have been completely unable to write anything fictional since I was about 16 years old. Maybe creativity evaporated along with my youthful innocence, drowned in a heady mix of sex, and self discovery. How ridiculous that sounds - I can barely fumble my way in the dark with someone in bed now, and I am still no closer to even beginning the tentative steps towards my first novella. 

I also cannot bear to be serious in my writing. The world is full of too much that is miserable and hard to bear without me adding to it with my hideous piles of drivel that apparently constitutes my 'creative output'. And yet I don't mean to be 'funny' in the sense of the crude, but rather to write with the kind of bone-dry humour I use to approach life, the kind that stops me from punching the world’s many, many morons in the back of the head in a sudden fit of irrational rage. I suppose it is confidence: I am not funny enough, mature enough, authoritative enough as a writer to produce anything worthy of note, which is why I have turned to occasional diatribes online, to bemuse people with my awkward, muddled paragraphing. 

Shockingly, I've just thought of some real subject matter for a blog post.