I can't blog.
For a couple of weeks, my writing was flowing, soaring, calling me and flying my fingers lines behind my thoughts. I managed to blog and write, each fueling the other. And then...nothing.
This week, my writing is hard-won, wrung-dry, and plodding. I use round-about, clearly overpopulated sentences to badly describe boring details about mundane activities. What's deleted far exceeds what remains. I feel uninspired. Possibly I've been feeding a pipe dream imagining I can piece together enough coherent, relevant story to enhance existing world dialogues. I'm time-pressured, sleep deprived, over-extended and emotionally turbulent. And I think I can write?
I tried to write a piece for my husband for Valentine's day. I had lots of opportunity, but no oomph. Six starts and stops of sentimental drivel and meandering over-analysis bore no resemblance to pithy observation, let alone the heartfelt appreciation and hungry attraction he so deserves.
So don't expect any great things from me, my friends. Creativity ebbs where once it flowed. Until the tide swells in again, I'll be dull as dishwater. And just as murky.
