So I’ve been writing. No, really. Just not here, which seems silly no? I’ve been writing comic book/graphic novel reviews mostly, and infrequently at that.

It’s been over ten years since I started writing things down on here. So much has happened. I regret not documenting the past 5-6 years as closely as I should have. There’s a lot of powerful lessons scattered about in that period of time that certainly deserve documentation.

I haven’t lost the ability to write with purpose. I have simply lost the confidence to do so. Confidence, yearning, desperation, exasperation, and the hope that someone might find my words compelling enough to assign them worth.

I’m 40 now. Physically I feel strong. I exercise regularly. My diet is, not terrible. None of this is particularly strange. What is strange, however, is how much easier it is for me to mindlessly work my body, as opposed to my mind.

I was a voracious reader. Always. Home, work, waiting at the DMV. I always, ALWAYS had a book in hand. Since I learned to read. When I traveled to Spain, half of my luggage was Conan the Barbarian paperbacks. I could not for the life of me understand people who sat down and watched hours of sitcoms, and later on reality television.

It’s not as if I never watched television. Especially growing up. But that was almost always a last resort. Cartoons being the exception for the most part.

Even when I got older. I started to watch more shows. I binge-watched my favorite anime series. I played video games, I watched movies. But always there was a book being read, and often several at a time.

One day it just stopped. All at once. Books and music were suddenly almost completely intolerable. And I loved both. Deeply. The timing could not have been worse. Just as I was preparing to try and make a career as a communications professional. So much happened to me leading up to that. But even the worst of it didn’t create a sudden gulf. There was a lull. A quiet period where everything was quiet. Nothing was as bad as it had been, or as good as it could be.

It just stopped. It feels like I died.

I’m 40. I don’t want to give up yet. That’s what happened, I think. Something inside me just gave up. In my mind anyway. My body appears to have no intention of slowing down. Lifting weights feels rather good and I have no intention of stopping now no matter how muddled my head becomes.

A lot of what I’ve written isn’t great. A fair bit of it is pretty cringe-worthy in truth. But there are a few gems hidden in there. I’d like to believe that I have a few more of those in me.

I’ll leave off for now. I’m still alive. Unsatisfied and frustrated, but alive and relatively well nonetheless.

I can do better. I can still write, and I can still love. And be loved. I think. For better or worse, I’ll write again here soon.

I think a schedule might benefit me. Every two days? Tuesdays and Thursdays? I’ll think about it.

See you soon.