I tend not to prescribe to the notion of writer’s block but rather let myself be uninspired. I admit tonight is one of those times, but nonetheless, here I am, writing for the sake of it. staring at a blank page is daunting sometimes. What to put down. What to omit. What am I going to actually say with this. All things I ponder about when the mood doesn’t strike.
But now that I have made a plan for myself, it is hard not to write. It may be bland, boring and at times, obtuse beyond any common sense – but it’s still written down. That act alone is the hardest I find. Sorting through one’s thoughts and ideas to scribe something intelligent and full of substance enough to be taken in en masse. I wish my own work could get there, but it’ll have to wait until the muse stops by and gives me one hell of a kiss. So until those moments of pure inspiration, I, along with everyone who reads my work, will have to deal.
I can say this however. This act of stringing letters & words together to form paragraphs of thought into readable material is divine.
I love writing.