I can’t write.
Nah, that’s not right. I’m writing right now. This blog post.
See, the thing is, I’m supposed to be writing a book. Since I decided to do this “writing philosophy” thing professionally, and I’ve already written one book on the subject, to consider myself an actual writer of philosophy I have to write.
Books, not blogs.
I really don’t even think what I have is writer’s block. After all, I am writing this blog post right now. I can write blog posts fairly easily. I once wrote eight posts in one day. (Really, I did). What my problem is, is that I’ve got some kind of philosophical performance anxiety. I’m right about to jump in the sack with some W.V.O. Quine but instead of something, there’s nothing. Instead of ED, I’ve got PD — philosophical dysfunction.
I don’t think there’s a pill to cure it, though. No Viagra for philosophers.
Man, that analogy was bad.
I remember sitting in my philosophy classes thinking (I realize arrogantly so) that writing stuff about things I’ve been thinking about shouldn’t really be that hard. I like philosophy. I like writing. I thought, if becoming a writer of philosophy means all I have to do is think about stuff and write it down, it should be easy peasy, right? I mean, come on, I said to myself, if my professors could do it, there was no way in hell that I couldn’t pull it off.
Heck, the guys on “Philosophy Talk” make chatting about philosophy seem not only easy, but downright fun and entertaining.
I’ve been writing on the same six pages of my book for three months.
I guess I was wrong.
I guess it’s not too late to change my mind about writing philosophy.
If I give it up I suppose that I wouldn’t have to think up any more bad Quine analogies.
… I wonder if that topless club is still hiring?