Oh my, this is terrible. I've a terrible malady. There is nothing worse for a writer than to suddenly have zero, naught, nil, zip, nada, to write about. Seriously, my mind is blank, my muse is off somewhere...maybe the Riviera, some sunny Greek Island, or The South Pacific snorkeling among exotic fish and beautiful coral...and I'm left here all alone. An empty shell.
There is no medication known to man that can heal me. I've been resorting to home remedies like splashing cold water on my face, and Frankie has been slapping my cheeks with some white gloves, encouraging me to duel with her, reminding me there's a 50% chance I'll lose, and never have to write another word again.
(Well, that's just plain mean!)
However, she does have a good point. To write or not to write another word again is in my hands, without having to resort to violence. All I have to do is stop writing right here and now.
I've had Writer's Block before, but have always been able to pull myself out of my slump and move on. This morning is different.
Over the last week I've been overcome with emotional issues. I've become disillusioned with sports, disgusted with celebrities, disheartened with society in general. I want to scream and yell, I want to pour out my soul in the sorrow. I feel as though I've been bound to a stake, in the center of a mound of twigs and sticks, all that's necessary is for someone to come along and set them and me on fire.
The joy of writing about good news, the excitement of having learned something unusual and rare, or even the silliness of my life seems all for naught. There is no joy in Joyville today folks. I'm sick. I'm sad. I'm disappointed. I think for the first time in my life, my glass is less than half full, and I no clue what's happened to my rose colored glasses.
So, that's it for today. I'm going off to wallow.
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