Every so often I hit the wall. I wake up, face the page, and no matter what topic I think of, a little voice in my head says, "who cares?"
Who cares if you write about that? What difference will it make?
It generally extinguishes my ability to write. I don't know where it comes from.
Who cares if I write about the lack of leadership and willingness to commit to Bridge Columbia?
What difference will it make if I highlight the silliness of HoCo Times devoting the ink to write an editorial of how cool free wifi is in Ellicott City, when they couldn't be bothered to say anything intelligent about the Nutritional Standards veto?
What's the point?
The topics haven't become less important. It's my sudden glimpse at myself--isn't it a ridiculous conceit to get up, day after day, and think that I must write and that it matters what I say? If I think about it, I can't do it. It becomes an obsession with self instead of just getting the work done.
This is in no way a request for a pat on the back. It's just the truth of what it's like to commit to something one must do day after day. Some days you are in the zone. Other days you remember being in the zone but don't know how to get there.
I'm going to see some other folks tonight who most likely have felt this way, too. When I hang out with other bloggers I am reminded of the joy of being passionate about something, and the excitement of wanting to share that passion with others. It stops being about second-guessing.
It's about sharing. Because, well--I care. And that's the point.