Writing feels blah

I have so much to write about, and I don't just mean blogging. I have several article ideas that I want to pitch to magazines, plus a few up-and-coming mags that are expecting articles, and I've been writing fiction non-stop for the past four days. There's also a journal that I'm supposed to be keeping for my English class, and a group project (survey and essay) that I'm supposed to do for my sociology/anthropology class.This is the first time that I've been overwhelmed with writing that I want to do, and the pressure to find my happy place within my happy medium is not lost on me.

Lately, my feelings are coming so quickly, so purely, that I feel them with every fiber of my body. But even that last part of the last sentence - "every fiber of my body" - sounds so contrived, so cliche, so outdated. I feel things, sure, but I don't know how to express them. I can't find the mental energy to dig deeper, to find a colorful way of saying what's on my mind. I feel inept and frustrated at my loss for words.

I've been rereading articles that I wrote for the Kingsman three, four, five years ago, and I can't help but feel that my way with words is slowly sinking toward mediocrity. There was once a spark, a definite feeling that my writing persona was someone special, that the words that flowed out of me were arranged in a unique way. Maybe my audience was limited, and maybe I didn't earn any money from writing, but I was undeniably good at it. Now, my audience has definitely grown and I'm earning a little bit from my writing, but I feel like my talent is diminishing. My words just don't have the easy flow, witty tone, and biting sarcasm they used to have. They feel so common, so used-up. It doesn't help, either, that I have such a hard time searching for the right word. I wonder if it's because I'm learning Tagalog that my brain is having a harder time processing language?

Speaking of writing, I'm reading Albert Camus's The Plague, and Jessica Hagedorn's The Gangster of Love. I've always liked Camus, but Hagedorn is a new obsession. I LOVE her. She's the first Filipino woman writer I've ever come across, and everything I learn about her - that she was discovered by Beat poets, that she's unconventional, that she's... what's the word? Gender ambiguous? GAH! I can't find the- ANDROGYNOUS! Yes, that she's androgynous-looking. Everything about her is fabulous, and I want her to be my mentor. After all these years of women picking me to be their mentee, I want to choose the person I want to learn from, and it's her.

I'm rereading each paragraph in this post, and I can't help but feel like this conversation would lead to one of our marathon gab sessions. I miss those! I want desperately to find someone here - someone besides my brother - who I can speak to like that. My best bet is one of my cousins, probably Leila or Lara. If not, then I'll have to wait till Rob gets here. But dammit, I miss actually speaking with a kindred spirit. I miss having face-to-face conversations with someone who just gets me and who I get. I'm wondering if that kind of friendship is possible between two people of such different experiences, cultures and languages. The only people I've met so far with good grasps of the English language are family members, and limiting my conversations to only them seems too exclusive. I have to figure out something to get me out of my communications rut.