Living and dying are words

An acquaintance recently noted a difference she sees between a writer and a content provider.

It's an interesting division to me. I've been tagged as a writer for more than 30 years. During most of that time, I could be labeled professional writer because someone was willing to write me a check for it.

During that same amount of time, I've taken tons of criticism for what I've done. Not just the constructive "I'd do it this way" type of review, but comments that suggest those writing the checks and myself have been fooling ourselves. My most cherished is "you write too conversationally."

See, I don't think I need to follow the very specific constraints of someone with an odd name like Strunk to consider myself a writer. To me, writing is expression. For pay, usually to express information, like in newspapers. Sometimes to just get something off my chest. And to me, the proper placement, or even use, of commas, colons and assorted punctuation shouldn't be what rule applies, but what gets the point across easiest.

I also believe there is something hardwired I don't understand. I was very surprised in my teen years to discover I had an ability to convey emotion with written words. I don't really know how that happens, but people have told me repeatedly they can feel the words or are moved to smile at them. Yes, I consider humor a major emotion.

But lately, I haven't found many words to express emotions. I know the emotions are there, but making that connection to the right word has been beyond difficult. I've kept putting out words as I believe writing is a muscle that atrophies if not used. But I know I've been a content provider.

I think it has a lot to do with how my life has gone lately. I'm not sure I've been living. Maybe subsisting is the proper description. Maybe even hiding. But living is not near the right word.

It's happened before for little periods. Sometimes I've felt in overload. Sometimes I've just slipped into fleeing, for unexpected periods almost not able to deal with people or myself. Sometimes life's flow takes its own little break.

But this is a combination of the worst of those and nothing at all to do with the latter. I've behaved jaded and cynical and distant from others and myself. It's frustrating. And the punishment is I've got nothing real to say about anything.

Most people would see this recognition and recommend stopping the disturbing action. But it isn't that easy. It's really a cause and affect without an ability to define which comes first. Obviously, not living creates a vacuum of subject. At the same time, not having that examination and expression makes me less interested in being part of the human experience. Living gives life to writing, not writing makes living feel like dying.