However, as years progressed, I found less and less time for my writing. As much as I would have liked to have written books, I could never organize the time to do so once I was out of college and not "getting credit" for my writing production. For many years I wrote 250 poems a year, year-in, year-out, which was a discipline that I was able to fit into my schedule (primarily in my P.R. years), and maintain from a creative standpoint. Unfortunately, my poetry began to become "stale" after a while, my "palette" consisting of fewer and fewer emotions, eventually even limited word sets. It is one thing for a Picasso to spend years limited to a blue palette, it was another for me to be constantly recycling images of doom, desperation, anguish and the abyss. Having read enough of concepts like neuro-linguistics, I came to realize that on some level my writing had become a self-perpetuating loop, providing a "physical manifestation" of a certain psychological state, which was then fed back into the system as the poems were finalized, typed, read, etc.
I made a conscious decision a number of years back to stop writing ... pretty much cold turkey (like I had stopped my drinking, an event that certainly had its effect on the nature of my writing). I had hoped that some time away would break that cycle, and allow me to return to writing "fresh" after a while. I was, frankly, shocked to find that when I did make an effort to return to writing that I very nearly dropped back in exactly where I left off, with perhaps some new words/concepts, but the same emotional content. Of course, the mundane details of my life had been in a constant downward spiral, so the sense of doom and desperation was certainly the "emotional reality" from which I pretty much had to draw. This all culminated with the death of my Mom a year ago January, which elicited a couple of poems, and then, once again, silence.
So, what does this have to do with L.J.?
This journal is pretty much the ONLY place that I write any more. It is my last grasp onto that "writer" person that I used to be. It is the last "niche" in which I am able to just "tap the word vein" and bleed out text. I know that it might be hard to believe, as blocky and disjointed as some of these entries appear, but I do frequently spend quite a lot of time editing and rewriting my copy in here, trying to get "just the right turn of phrase" to express what I need to get expressed.
One of the reasons I get so frustrated at the frequent lack of comments to my posts is that I often have "more to add" but need to have the interaction of the commentary to evoke that. Similarly with my own comments in others' journals, I regularly expend significant efforts to make witty, well-crafted, and often even well-researched (i.e., with useful links) comments and am then quite disappointed when these go without even being acknowledged.
So, if I'm getting pissy about "being ignored" in here, please understand that, in many ways, Live Journal is my sole "lifeline" to that writer I used to be. It's more than just a blog, it's the last feeding tube keeping that part of me alive, and I do tend to cling to it in somewhat unbecoming ways.