Ha. Ha. It ain’t no party, this writer’s block thing. I don’t suppose whining about it is productive, either, but there’s something to be said for sharing the angst with other writers. Thus the party, right?
I’ll bring the whine.
This round of blockage is courtesy of too many things on my plate, both emotional and long lists of tasks. My father’s recent illness and death, a huge and on-going de-cluttering project (how in the world have we accumulated so much stuff?), demands at the office. It weighs down the creative soul. Or maybe I’m just afraid of what might come out of the pen, so I put it down.
The solution is to write anyway. At least that’s what my writer-friends tell me.
Write. Even if it’s crap. It’s still writing, and then maybe something good will come of it. I’m hopeful, anyway.
I’m still blocked. I’m still writing. And I’m still hopeful.