I haven’t written anything new since last Thursday night. Had I not a ready supply of drafts, nothing would have gotten published this week.
I haven’t written anything. No new drafts. No rough drafts. No tweaks of old drafts. No lists.
I haven’t even written an email. I did tweet but I don’t count that. Tweeting is like breathing or being a smart aleck in that it comes naturally.
When I wrote Friday’s post last Thursday night I felt charged. I had an idea that I got excited about and then I typed it out in a couple of hours.
I anticipated that I would get a good jump on the upcoming week over the weekend. My goal was at least a couple of new posts to be published here, a guest post I’ve had on my list, and two sets of interview questions.
The weekend didn’t turn out as I had hoped. Life happens, especially to writers, that’s where we get our stories. So, I didn’t have time to get it in writing just yet.
Monday came and I had nothing ready. I figured it was no big deal. I could take care of it straightaway. Then I turned on the faucet, so to speak, and all I got was air and this weird humming sound.
After an hour of sitting there waiting for the tiny glimpse of a miracle, I decided to post an old draft. Today is not the day, I thought. To be honest, I wasn’t so concerned. I motioned to wait in the cover of darkness in my room, comforted by the friendly presence of my television.
Even now, as I am writing, I find it frustrating that all I can manage are words about words, writing about writing, thoughts about thinking. Meta-blah.
On Tuesday, the idea of a week off (Donna’s suggestion) seemed ludicrous. Yet, here I am.
It’s as if I’ve been out sick. I have been. These are my mental health days.
51 percent of me that hasn’t missed the office.
But then, if you can go without writing you’re not a writer right? Fine, I’m not a writer. So be it.
It’s just one of those weeks.
Maybe tomorrow will be different.