This man is my hero, Ludwig Wittgenstein.
I'm thinking of him today because he once found a copy of one his own books (the Tractatus) belonging to a friend (Moritz Schlick, the founder of the Vienna Circle), and he wrote on the flyleaf:
"Every one of these sentences is the expression of an illness."
This week, I've been writing. And last week too. My whole bloody life has been writing. And I have felt so inarticulate. I've been feeling constipated; not literally but verbally and intellectually.
I come to my blog to try and express something. I go to other people's blogs to read them and leave comments. Not much happens. A joke, a cartoon, a fragment of a song.
Somewhere inside me, I have a PhD. And once I have written it, I have a life beyond it. (Go me!) Today, every one of my sentences feels like the expression of an illness.
I first discovered I could write when I was six years old. Until then, I'd read books, devoured them avidly.
Books were wonderful things.
As soon as I had a school teacher who encouraged me to write, I started telling stories, and didn't want to stop.
But that was then.
I've been talking to my Friendly Neighbourhood Wise Woman about the hell of writing for almost a year.
A couple of weeks ago, she suggested that maybe "constipation" wasn't the right medical metaphor for what I'm doing.
She thinks I am giving birth to myself.
I think I can work on that...