I’m in for the evening, listening to rain hit my attic roof as I sit with King’s “On Writing”. In this great little book, he blasts highfalutin authors. Any decent writer writes for her readers, he says.
I got the idea to write down the unfamiliar words I came across in his prose, so I retrieved one of my old notebooks. When I opened it, I found this entry from years back. The first paragraph gave me a chuckle. I love coincidences like this!
World: piss off. I am a writer. I can write whatever I want, and I don’t give a shit if no one else reads it. I don’t need to be afraid of what anyone else thinks. I can just use and abuse these clean lines by penning my unbridled thoughts. I don’t care if I fill this entire book with crap.
Sometimes I feel so bored and so boring that I can’t even be bothered to move. I usually end up standing in the hallway, somewhere between rooms, hanging in that awful space between doing one thing and the next. I don’t want to move and instead stare at the wall. Moving would require me to think up something to do!
That is the most acute boredom I know of. Richard calls it “boredism”. Perhaps I could become an expert in the field.
I do at least entertain myself in wondering why I’m so bored. Oh, that can occupy my time.
What does boredom feel like? It’s when my body stubbornly refuses to move, and my mind has locked itself into a room. Soulless is a bit of a strong word, but it seems to serve the occasion.
Esther Hicks would call it “out of vibrational harmony”. Eckhart Tolle would call it “not living in the now”. Norman Vincent Peale would say “give it to God”.
Boredom is just a comfy sweater worn by my depression.
Thankfully, I’m not bored anymore. Inspiration has come couch surfing.