Friday, 7 November 2008
I’ve always been a pretty passionate kind of person, one of those who throws herself into things, wanting to know as much about it as possible and to do it as well as I can and over the course of my 48 years, my passions have been many.
One passion that’s been a thread throughout my life, right from when I was a little girl, is writing. I’d write in notebooks, on serviettes, on the backs of bus tickets and… well, on just about anything it’s possible to write on. And for a good few years, my main income was through writing.
But not now. The passion’s gone. I’ve no idea where it’s gone - maybe somebody half inched it while I wasn’t looking for all I know, but gone it is.
I still enjoy writing my blog, it’s ‘writing proper’ that’s gone. I have no muse when it comes to fiction and non-fiction, unless I’m writing about something that I particularly want to write about, leaves me cold. It just doesn’t interest me anymore. I try, believe me I do, but the words just don’t come. Not in a way that’s worth putting on paper, anyhow.
I’m thinking it’s time to accept that it’s gone.
I knit but I’m not passionate about that either. I sew and cross-stitch but there’s no passion behind them either. I cook from scratch but without the real passion that I once felt. There is no passion in me right now.
What’s happening? Why do I feel this way? It’s like I’m empty, just waiting for passion to come marching back and push me into gear again. I’m sure it will eventually but it’s the waiting I don’t like. Having no passion doesn’t sit well with me.