Yesterday, I found myself sitting across a table from a supposed psychic, being asked to believe her. Charlatan would have been a more appropriate term, I believe, but I was not entirely in control of the situation. She asked me if I had any questions. I considered what this woman had told my friend and decided that I could use the charlatan's intuition to read my subconscious. I asked her about my writers' block. She told me exactly what I should have known.The process has lost its fun--its magic, mystique. I no longer enjoy it. I view it as work. I have to try too hard. I write because of compulsion, not desire. I have lost the pulse of my words. I am no longer sure I even want to find it. Such circumstances do not create art. No, they create nothing but misery.
I asked her if I would soon change my course. She said yes, but not immediately. The block will end, and I will continue my current project. I will finish it, and then I will change. I recognize the necessity of this. A genre shift is in order.
She told me that my writing would bring me a good deal of money. I wanted to laugh in her face and tell her that a) I do not believe that and b) I do not care. Money will not make me happy, for I do not believe anything or anyone can truly make me happy. It is an emotion I do not comprehend, and perhaps it is better this way. I am not happy. But I am content.
I am afraid this means I have forgotten how to have fun. Even with my writing. This would seem to imply an end. I may have hit it. I cannot say. I never know whether to believe my subconscious. I shall have to meditate.
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"Well, my tarot cards must have clouded up." Mark Adams
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