April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
This New Year’s project isn’t a new one for me. The internet is littered with my abandoned blogs, begun in earnest and neglected within weeks. Something always came up: work sapped my creative energy, wedding-planning took all of my time, and that fearsome writer’s block loomed perpetually, all angular and uninspiring. At first, the lack of readers provided a good excuse: why write for no one? Then, after I would share a link with friends in a last-ditch attempt at accountability, the pressure of writing for an audience caused insurmountable performance anxiety.
Why, you may well wonder, should this attempt fare any differently?
I like to think I’ve identified the root cause of my previous failures. I like to think that I now have a few more worthwhile ideas to explore through writing in community. I like to think that, despite our collective pessimism surrounding new year’s resolutions, people can change.
Time will tell.
Then spoke the thunder
Datta: what have we given?
My friend, blood shaking my heart
The awful daring of a moment’s surrender
Which an age of prudence can never retract
By this, and this only, we have existed
Which is not to be found in our obituaries
Or in memories draped by the beneficent spider
Or under seals broken by the lean solicitor
In our empty rooms
– “The Waste Land” by T. S. Eliot