For the past three weeks, I have wanted to write. My fingers have itched to dance across the keys of my laptop, yearning to romance the English language with my own particular brand of prose. My brain has wished to expel my thoughts and internal dialogues into the world like so much water through a sluice gate. Trouble is, this sluice gate has recently been clogged by some unknown force.
Therefore, my dancing fingers have been figuratively hobbled and the English language seemed to have friend-zoned me like the cruel temptress that it truly is. I have struggled to overcome this curse with very limited success. Just this morning I finished a piece I volunteered to write, after a very strained period of consciously forcing myself to sit down and press keys until what was on the screen looked passable enough to work.
This issue has irked me, but no more. Now I fight fire with fire. A really, really freaking BIG fire.
Writing is a great way to release stress, to get rid of that mental tension by just letting everything go, letting all of your problems flow out of your fingers and into the open where the big bad world swiftly devours them. Writing about an issue is a great way to resolve it, at least if it’s internal. My issue was writer’s block, so I wrote about it.
I’m back, baby.