I’ve just spent a bit of time reading some of my weblog from its initiation two years ago, scanning here and there to watch the progress towards some high inspired times and the prolificality (remember that?) with which I wrote about everything and anything I looked at.
Nowadays, the morning shower is for hygiene, the backyard is just there, and the dark garage nights hold no secret revelations to be discovered. I have not run naked from the shower, nor smashed a cigarette out in a spray of sparks to race to a computer to capture a thought in too long a time.
I have started stories, had wisps of conceptual narrative, learned to make plots and plans, yet I cannot carry through a thought beyond that opening paragraph. This writer’s block, however, is not a mysterious malady at all, but a named burden of obsession over some personal realities that affect livelihood and family relationships destroyed that just drag on forever to cloud any hope of free thinking.
The silver lining (ah yes, I found the entries on the "Silver Lining Club" that were sarcastic pokes at my natural pessimism) here is that I am learning new things about human nature that can find their way into future story to add depth. Trial and tribulation must be endured, but recycled (as a frugal and practical device, also a natural trait) can turn to be valuable lessons of life and rich resources for writing.