Been thinking about so-called writer’s block lately. Wondering if the submission process is truly the problem and I just don’t think it’s that at all.
There is a lack of confidence, of course. "Of course" because there are a few areas where I’m feeling deficient and they, as seems to always be the case, converge to paralyze the creative part of me–or anyone I would think who is by nature obsessive.
Overwhelmed by thoughts that take over daily doings, prevent any hope of restful nights, I struggle to produce a day that goes beyond what’s for dinner. Strange, how one can be intelligent enough to recognize a pattern and yet do little to break it.
The backyard calls me. I will, if nothing else, hoe up the garden, trim some bushes, try to bury problems in the soft brown earth and raise the spirit from the planting of hopeful seeds.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology