I’m feeling discouraged this morning. Nothing I wrote over the weekend worked. I had an idea that I wanted to develop, but every time I tried to work with it, it just fizzled. I finally stopped trying, but not before I seriously started questioning whether or not I’ll ever be able to write again the way I used to. I’m afraid it’s my brain, I really am. The same unhealthy diet that led to heart symptoms, I fear has clogged my mind as well. My vocabulary, my sense of rhythm, my connection to words…all feel off.
I want to be happy about my work. I post things here that I know aren’t always fully formed. There’s a good chance that I’ll rework pieces, even pieces I wrote ages ago. If I wait until I’ve perfected something, I’ll never post. No piece is ever perfect. That’s okay, usually. For some reason, it gnawed at me all weekend.
Maybe I should have taken more time alone to work. I write in the morning most days, but weekends with everyone home, I often push that out until late night. Some nights I’m too tired, and I fall asleep with my notebook on my lap (and a cat on my notebook).
I was going to pull a poem and post it here anyway, but the more I read through them, the more I feel it’s best to leave today to itself. I’ll transcribe my scribblings from the weekend, see if there’s anything there worth working with. Tomorrow I’ll post something, new or old, perhaps loosely connected to my Oh-Hell-It’s-March theme, perhaps celebrating the arrival of spring (right…I don’t have any of those), perhaps another ode to writer’s block. (Is it writer’s block when you’re writing but it all sucks?)
Meanwhile, let’s celebrate the arrival of Spring. The sun is out, it’s only 18° (feels like 1° with the wind), and the ground is still covered in snow. There’s a poem there somewhere.