I remember when a day passing between my writing fits was uncommon.
It has been literally months now since I have penned anything of substance. Ideas roll about in my head, but for some reason I just do not allow them to escape. I know part of the problem is fear. But that is a topic for another day.
My emotions are having an adverse reaction to my writing celibacy. And I am fairly certain that my beloved would lock me in our bedroom with a pencil and a pad of paper if he thought it would help.
Perhaps that's what I need. I keep putting every other action item on my multiple "To-Do" lists above the simple act of writing. Or, as I take it, catharsis.
Even now, 2 AM, I sit here, unable to fall asleep, my mind tumbling. Reading didn't bring about the heavy eyelids as it normally does, so my only thought was to pull my lap top covertly under the covers so the light doesn't wake my snoring dear.
I hate when the cursor blinks at me repeatedly over and over, like someone stomping their foot impatiently waiting for you to do or say something. To make up your mind. Keep blinking, little black line. You only spur me to keep my fingers flying across this keyboard.
God. I have started talking to my computer. I need to get my butt down to writing so they don't commit me this early in life.
Of course, it did work well for Sylvia Plath. Except for the suicide. I'll try to steer clear of that.