I’m having a hard time lately finding any motivation for writing — novel work, blogging, letters. I’m a big-picture kind of person, all too aware of the major currents that swirl around us, not a good way to live for someone prone to depression. When I’m down, physically and mentally, the trivia that dominates the media seems to be an ocean swamping anything of real importance, and making it more apparent that humanity is in the process of committing suicide, and trying to take as much as possible of the natural world with it. Whether it’s Trump, Byonce, ISIS, the latest jaw-dropping technologies, even the causes that I support, it’s all ephemera that is in the process of being swept away by forces we choose to ignore.
In the face of the larger realities, my own writing has little point or significance. I suppose I’ll continue — eventually, but not today.