I have been sitting in front of this computer for quite a while, trying to come up with something interesting to say. I got nothing, y’all. Hence the Seinfeld-esque title of this post. I think my brain may actually be broken this time. The well has run dry. I am out of ideas. Perhaps the spooky has left the building? Has my creepy side up and quit on me?
No, no. That can’t be it. I believe I may truly be suffering from a horrible bout of writer’s block. The dreaded affliction that stalls creativity and drives a writer to the brink. I haven’t written anything substantial in a few months. MONTHS. I hate this. I miss my mind spilling over with ideas, some coming at me so fast I have to make multitudes of little notes in my phone and on post-its just to keep them all from slipping away.
My logic tells me this is common and will pass; my emotions tell me all hope is lost and I will never write again. Then that lovely self-esteem whispers: “No one reads your shit anyway.” Ah, the intriguing sounds of the constant war within my own mind. It never gets old. (It definitely got old years ago.)
I want this to pass. I want to sit here and pour my words into the keyboard with reckless abandon. I want the stories to flow free. I want to feel that spooky little spark of joy when I read them back to myself after completion. I want the excitement of presenting new material to the world. I suppose until then, I will just write about nothing at all. Curse you, writer’s block.
Look for all the awesome things I used to write, before this stupid dry spell, inside my little cemetery: http://www.twistedlibracemetery.com