like endless rain into a paper cup

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).



A short post complaining that I’m blocked

It’s happened again. I’m stuck. Deep-in-the-ditch, sloshing-in-mud stuck. On my lap, rests my copy of A Clockwork Orange. I bought it because a friend of mine suggested it. It’s been on my to-read list for a few years now, I just never came around to it. And there is. Two chapters in and I want to write about her. The coffee drinker. The post I’ve started and restarted for two days now. Because every one in my life deserves a post sooner or later. And her time is now. Because our friendship is still new. And it’s still amazing that someone out there can capture my attention so quickly. And I can’t start the damn thing because the thoughts in my head are jumbled up. Yet, here I am. Writing about my block as if it were not big thing. Writer’s aren’t supposed to feel block. It’s a myth, isn’t it?