. . . did not want to flow this weekend. The words, in fact, fought dramatically against any attempt on my part to pull them from my brain and force them onto the computer screen. The battle raged. I fought and fought and fought and fought. I stared at the screen. I typed. I deleted. I typed again. I deleted again. I struggled, minute after minute, and still the words would not flow. I persevered. I would win the battle. I won a small victory - some excellent, but brief, writing. I gave up. That was yesterday. Today was not much better. In fact, today equaled only a sentence or two.
Why? Why won't the words flow easily? Why is it so difficult to write? What am I doing wrong? Am I blocked? Is there some type of laxative I can take to make the words flow? Where is the inspiration, the orm? Where are the days of obsession when I could not stop the words or ideas? Where is the passion that drove me to distraction? Why is it so brief and ephemeral? Why does it not stay with me always and forever? Can the human mind/body not sustain such passion forever? Must I go through the periods of frustration to truly appreciate the fervor that defined my life for a time?
I have no clue. I only know frustration - today, yesterday. Does it have to do with doubt? Do I suddenly doubt my abilities? I can write. I am a good writer. I have talent. Is it all psychological, some trauma brought on by the constant wait for acceptance/rejection from the query letter I sent out? Do I base the rest of my life, the writing I love so much, on what might not be right for the agent I sent the query letter? Do I move past the doubts, the fear that I have no talent, and rely on the kindness of strangers? Okay, so that didn't make much sense. You can see how my mind is working right now. I think I need some wine.
I think I need more than wine. I need inspiration. I need encouragement. I need some sign that . . . well, hell if I really know what I need right now. Hey, at least I brought a smile to my face and, amazingly so, my fingers are currently flying across the keyboard. The blog might not be the next great work of fiction, but it is writing. I'm just saying . . .