I've done a lot of blogging about my writers block. The other day I came across something I wrote in the fall about my frustrations with my writing:
It’s like going from loving someone to not.
I was a writer then I wasn’t.
The words stopped.
They used to hang out inside my head.
Between meetings and phone calls, walking down the street, sentences knocked around with the rhythm of my steps.
How to say it best, new words, phrases, ideas; it was all bouncing around fighting for space in my thoughts until I finally spit them out either through ink and pen or tapped into my keyboard, letters cascading from the cursor.
Now there’s an opaque filter holding them back, waiting for liquid draino or is it that the words have been spilled and will no longer be refilled.
Whatever… I’ve slowly started writing. The obsession with words is, slowly, coming back…
It's like a spring day (or Fall) and I'm cleaning and running errands and getting things done. Sun makes for a whole new me.
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