Why I Need a New Hobby

I haven't read this book in years, but I think I remember that in "Frankenstein," by Mary Shelley, the monster begs the doctor to create for him a companion. Once this request is granted, the two monsters will go somewhere far away, never to bother him again. And so the doctor agrees, but as he looks upon the newly created female monster, he can't bear the thought that he's bringing yet another monstrosity into the world. Therefore he tears the she-creature apart, and the repercussions really kind of suck for him later.
If that's not actually part of the novel, then I may have made it up, and should probably submit to a psychological evaluation. But, either way, that's the story of my nanowrimo attempt this year.
In 2010 I'd begun writing a story, and stopped after roughly 2600 words. Then, life got crazy. Not that I necessarily would have finished this story even if life hadn't gotten crazy, but life did get crazy in 2010, I swear it really did. And to this day, I haven't written any more than 2600 words, but I have the entire story plotted out in my head. And every so often, it finds a way to poke some of the soft gray matter inside my skull, as if to say, "Create me, Mandie, complete me. I have so many plot twists yet to be twisted."
"I don't know if me writing fiction is a good idea," I protest. "My creativity level has flatlined, and as for my vocabulary, I think I'm forgetting about ten words per day."
"But what ELSE are you going to do with your time?" the unwritten story whines.
So, I thought this year I'd try nanowrimo. I've thrice attempted nanowrimo unsuccessfully, but I could just write those off as practice rounds. Virginia Woolf believes one just needs "a room of one's own" to write a novel, and I've got a whole dang apartment. Plus, my November kicked off with six hours of maintenance on Cujo (poor guy needed new brakes) during which I had nothing to do but write.
And so, after handing Cujo's key to the mechanic, I sat down in the waiting room, pulled out my laptop, opened my partial story for reference (I couldn't write in the same document, because those 2600 words can't count toward my total), and began creating a monster.
Seriously. I know my fiction writing was never good and has gotten worse over the years, but this was painful. I found no enjoyment in the process. What I was doing was a crime against God, man, and the English language. I was mangling basic sentence components, forcing them to do terrible things that they were never made for. Once I'd typed 866 words, I was forced to sit back, take a few deep breaths, and study the monster I'd created. I thought of the implications if this story joined forces with my previous excerpt and they were unleashed on the world, and I suddenly felt like I'd birthed a race of demons that would make the literary devastation caused by Twilight seem like a mere hiccup.
Thus I banished my new document to my laptop's recycle bin as my old document looked on in horror, realizing it was destined to be forever alone. And I'm sure, much like Frankenstein's monster, it will continue to nag the creator who gave it life but not fulfillment. In this case, the creator attempted to drown her sorrows by taking mindless quizzes in Oprah magazine (the strength of my inner voice is on the low side of medium, in case anyone was curious about that). But I know all solutions are temporary. It will always bug me, at least a little, that I used to be able to write fiction and enjoy writing fiction, and I can't anymore.
I don't know what it is. I feel like it's some kind of slowing of my brain, and perhaps it just comes with age. Or perhaps it's because I didn't keep my brain in shape. Kind of like I used to be able to run marathon distances on any given Saturday, and I now feel very accomplished if I can run over 8 miles. Part of it may be age, and part of it that I didn't keep my body in that kind of shape.
But still, even when you cease to be able to do something, part of you perpetually thinks you can. I'm in the gym, and I pick up a Runner's World magazine. Always a dumb mistake. I read an article about training for ultramarathons. I COULD SO RUN FIFTY MILES! THAT SOUNDS AWESOME! Or, I'm reading the Game of Thrones series. I COULD SO CREATE A COMPLEX FANTASY WORLD WITH MULTIPLE RELIGIOUS IDEOLOGIES AND POLITICAL STRUCTURES AND 30 PAGES WORTH OF FAMILY TREES AT THE END OF EACH BOOK AND WRITE AN EPIC SERIES THAT FOLLOWS DOZENS OF PRIMARY CHARACTERS BUT AT THE SAME TIME MAKES EACH OF THEIR STORIES ENGAGING, PERSONAL, AND PAINSTAKINGLY DETAILED! THAT WOULD BE A BLAST! Stupid inner voice. Why do you think I can do things I can't do? We need to work on our communication. Maybe Oprah could help me with that.
All this to say, I feel I'm still without talents or hobbies. Perhaps someday I'll find something that I'm capable of and that I truly enjoy, and my inner voice and I will finally be on the same page, and I'll become the Mandie I was always meant to be. In the meantime, though, I'll probably keep on beating the dead horses of writing and running. "Maybe if I wrote this scene from the other character's POV..." "Maybe if I eat a different flavor of Clif bar..."
Hmm, come to think of it, I haven't tried the mint chocolate chip ones.
Today may be the day that changes everything...