Searching for Meaningful Writing

There’s nothing like writing about writing. It might be the purest sign of boredom. It’s a form of self-reflection, where I go when I’m lost.

I’ve written some stories from my childhood, and have a long list of topics for more, but they always fall a bit flat in my mind. They just never seem as unique and meaningful as those involving my life with ALS.

Because they’re not. With few exceptions, they lack the emotional depth that brings power to my work. It’d be unreasonable to expect stories about the neighborhood kids building tree forts or playing whiffle ball to have deeper meaning beyond subjective nostalgia, but for me, without that “oh, that really made me think” factor, it’s just not that satisfying.

I’ve recently discovered the same standards for my reading. I always want to learn something, but I think it’s more than that. I want the things that I read to make a meaningful imprint on my brain.

Maybe I should write them anyway, if only as a way to preserve aspects of myself. I’ve explained this feeling to friends, and they’ve come to the same conclusion: Not everything has to be so heavy. It might even be a nice break (for both writer and reader) to deal in something entirely different, light and easy to read.

This dilemma is a fitting microcosm of my worldview. It’s so very hard for me to care about the things I don’t see, in the greater scheme, as important. I guess it’s ALS―and hopelessness, and depression. But I’m sure it’s a reasonable and logical response.