Jocelyn (The Reading World)

Over the last few months or so I've been feeling more burnt out than I usually do. I struggle to read, I struggle to review and in general I simply don't feel the same crazy interest I used to in my usual activities. I don't care as much, even though I pretend to myself that I do--I care enough about caring that I force myself to do so. I've started to get much more detached from things than I know is necessary, becoming extremely critical of everything until the only thing I'm really inclined to do is pick fault with anything I read--including my own writing, leading me to delete (instead of rewriting like I usually do) several reviews that even my friends told me they enjoyed.

I don't know if any of you have noticed, though you probably have. I thought I was just being too whiny and I'd bounce back to it soon enough. But still, I feel like anything I post now lacks the passion and effort I used to put into it. Most of my reviews feel empty, vague, and written too *carefully*. Much of my time is spent wondering what's happened to my old enthusiasm for reading and writing rather than mentally engaging with other people's ideas and reading experiences. Every time I do review at all, I do it with a gut-churning fear that nothing I produce will be reflective of what I want to say. In other words I feel like I'm just trying to find myself again. Wow I never ever ever thought I would say that, ever.

Now, this doesn't mean I've given up reading, or Goodreads, or talking with the rest of you. Of course not. I still love reading and interacting with other people to exchange opinions about books. I think this is just a bump in the road I'll eventually get over; I'm just impatient and desperate to know when, because this block has been dragging out for far longer than I expected, and there have been times when I have actually wondered if I should give everything up for good, if I'm simply not up to this whole thing anymore and if I should find something better to do with my time.

On the good side, I'm making it sound worse than it really is. Some days are better than others, and I think I'm getting closer to...well, closer to where I want to be. A few friends I've told this to have been very encouraging (thanks a lot for your support, Jonathan--and to the rest of you for sticking with me), and several times the last couple of weeks my interest is genuine rather than forced. And at least I had the guts to write this particular thing here, which is comforting. I hope you don't interpret this to mean that everything I've written in this period was insincere; maybe a better way to put is that it takes a long time for me to get worked up enough to be remotely interested enough to do anything at all.

I'm well aware that I sound extremely pathetic right now, and I know I'm probably taking this way more seriously than it needs to be; I just can't help it. If you're laughing at me right now, I don't blame you. But at least I know that I need to

*relax

*stop thinking that getting interested in reading again is so complicated

*stop expecting some sort of fricking masterpiece to fly out of my hands every time I look at a computer

*and relax, some more

...And I'd appreciate if someone could throw a bucket of ice water at me and tell me to wake the hell up, as I doubt I'm clear-headed enough to do that myself.

Thanks for bearing with me and listening to my rambling.