Day 10 The Silent Pen
There was a time when the characters were speaking to me. The words flowed across the keyboard if I just sat in front of the damn thing long enough. This is not happening, and I am suffering from the sound of a silent pen. Ink well all dried up. It is soddenly frustrating. I have not been able to put word to electronic file in two days. Everything I’ve typed has been crap. Have I whined sufficiently enough yet? Are there any offers of cheese coming?
…too many balls in the air to juggle…
Part and parcel of it is that I’m particularly tired. Work has been draining this week on both a physical and intellectual level. There are just too many balls in the air to juggle and I sense a shutdown coming. My wife senses something similar, mind you she senses that I’m getting sick. Coming down with a cold or flu (again) is the current theory. Manifesting an illness as a coping strategy to deal with all the stress. I of course scoff at the idea, as my head and joints ache, my sinuses start to fill, and I descend into a massive heap of grumpy helplessness as can only be achieved by a man under the weather. The kind of crappy ill feeling that turns early forties fiercely independent males into seven year old children looking for their mum and a bowel of chicken noodle soup.
So here I am, further behind. Feeling like crap. Feeling worse for being behind. The spiral downward is becoming more rapid, but there is hope. Hope for the weekend, hope for feeling better, hope for the muse’s return.
Start MSN Chat
Sore throat and silent paintbrush - seems to be the November malaise. But if we wait for the Muse, she may not arrive at our doorstep in time.
The Witch of November does more than sink boats on the great lakes… she sinks creativity too.
I’m going to lock myself at the keyboard this weekend and force something out. Literary constipation be damned.
I too have been frustrated with a dreaded blockage. It’s strange, I will go for a walk and feel the energy to write…it’s like this kinetic energy building up that makes me want to hide in my office and write War & Peace: Redux, but then I realize there is a disconnect. The ability to write is there, but the idea of what to write about is hiding behind a vault. The shadowy figure of my muse flits at the corner of my eye, but then plays the tart and runs away when I turn to look.
Hmmm…gotta store that one for later….
Up for a drink this weekend sometime? I’ll bring the Wiffle bat of poetic inspiration.
Tim, Tim, Tim, if you type it, it will come. I had no clue what I was going to write for NaNoWriMo. I just started typing it and the story started to come out. It’s a discovery in progress kind of thing.
This weekend was not good for a drink, but Thursday? Goat? Singing? let me know…