Sorry, my head's all fucked up right now. I'm trying to think something through. I received a letter today that threw me completely off, and I'm not even feeling like myself right now. I don't even know what I was going to write for tonight's GF, anyway. For nights like this, I have a list of back-up ideas, just in case I can't think of what I should talk about. They're not written beforehand, though; they're just ideas.
For as long as I can remember, I've always had something to write. I'm sure when I was in elementary school, there were gaps, but to the best of my memory, I've always had something to write ever since I started.
Often I wonder what I would do if I didn't have an idea to work with, and I rarely find myself in such a situation. There's always something to tinker with, at the very least. There is occasionally a fear in the back of my head that when I get through the list of ideas I have on tap, that I might not have any more ideas after that, and I frustrate myself by trying to think of what I would do in such an instance.
Except, now that I think about it, there actually WAS one time that I had nothing to write. It was many years ago, maybe 13 years. I didn't have a single idea to work with, but I still had to write. I couldn't just waste away in front of a blank screen. I recently discovered a collection of writing exercises I did back then. There are about 15 of them, one for each night, just to make sure my writing abilities stayed sharp.
They're kind of odd to read because they're not exactly stories. They're descriptions of mundane things. One time I wrote about my commute to and from work. Another time I described someone I saw walking down the sidewalk. Hell, there was even a time when I described a time I jerked off. That's how bored I was, but I had to write. The compulsion is in me. If I don't, I start feeling weird. The world doesn't connect with me. I start doubting my own existence. Sometimes I think that writing is the only thing that stands between me and a healthy dose of schizophrenia.
Luckily, this has only ever happened once in my life. I hope it never happens again. To writers who wonder what to do with themselves when they don't have ideas, I highly recommend this type of exercise. I don't know what the fuck I would have done if I hadn't occupied my mind like this.
Some of you might wonder about the letter I received. I can't talk about it right now, as it is of a very personal nature. Maybe I'll write about it some day, but I need to sort through a few things in my head before I ever do that. It has nothing to do with writing, though.