Patiently Poking

I have not been writing lately (even blew off blogging last week). For some reason I’ve been finding every other thing to fill the moments instead of ink.

Why?

I’m not one hundred percent sure. I only know that when I write something it feels hollow. It feels useless. I can’t decide what age I’m aiming my words at, or what I really want to say.

Why?

Again – not sure. Is the love of writing over? Caput? Sailed away while I blinked?

I don’t think so, at least not if I go by the gut-ripping sensations inside when I try to picture myself not writing. Yet, here I am—not writing.

Strange.

Stranger still is the fact that I think about writing all the time. My book is always shifting, always evolving inside my head as my characters slip from scene to scene. Yet, I write nothing.

Oh sure, I make notes about stories for magazine submission but I don’t write any actual stories because each time I try I am shifted back to that hollow useless feeling mentioned above.

Why?

Why not?

That I think is the more truthful question. I believe I am in the middle of doing what any artistic soul occasionally does—letting the ego run amok and smash its way around my mind like a stoned monkey.

Why?

Because every stressed-out, cage-up, ego-based monkey-brain needs to blow off steam and wear itself out once in a while. It’s a matter of inner balance. And once the ego-brain has worn itself out and lays gasping for life amidst the wreckage, spirit will wander in and take back the joy-stick of control letting me slip back into being the writer I am.

At least I hope so…

Until then, I sit here practicing patience as I poke at my words amidst the chaos.

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