“It’s perfectly natural for butterflies,” I type. I pause for a moment, counting the years on imaginary fingers. “Twelve years into this game and it still takes a lot out of me,” my fingers click-clack on the keyboard, pausing for just a glitch of a second to take in the fact that, twelve years ago, …
I can’t write. I don’t know understand the struggle. Yeah, there’s the whole not having written anything creative in ages, but it’s not like I haven’t been writing at all during this hiatus. There’s this blog. There’s work writing. There’s my journal. There’s writing my short intros during poetry readings at [redacted]. Yet, here I am tonight. Just rambling on this online journal after several failed attempts at something creative. Maybe it’s just the day? Maybe I can get something done tomorrow at work? Who knows. I doubt it, though. I have way too much on my plate this week, so there won’t be any me-time during my working hours. I’m just glad I finished my riddles Saturday.
I remember there was a time when writing came to me second nature. When I’d wake up in the middle of the night and rummage my nightstand for my notepad and just scribble thoughts down in the dark. That doesn’t happen anymore. I think the last thing I scrawled in my journal for creative purposes was a rough “sketch” of some dialogue shared with my boss. Well, she shared with me. (No, I’m not gonna indulge those details here. But if I should ever use it in a story, she’ll recognize it immediately.)
Even this post wasn’t meant for this subject. Originally, I was going to talk about Jenny, about the poetry reading, and my reading goals for the year (subject wise).