I wish I could say that there has been so much going on, I haven't had time to write. The truth is, I'm a "high-class writer" and lead myself to believe that I need certain circumstances in order to be able to write well. For example, I can't be standing up and writing, or typing on a keyboard with a stubborn period key. I find that sitting here, at my own kitchen table, in my own quiet apartment, with my own Tarquinius (my computer) is where I am able to write "best". Or so it would seem. Sadly, I am almost certain that I've made myself believe these things because I am having difficulty writing lately. It seems to be a repeating complaint of mine lately. Somewhere along the way in the last six months, I have forgotten how to write properly. Or write at all.
That fear of the blank page, the overwhelming thought of the infinite possibility of words that could find their way on to the paper...it is cripplingly present and disappointing as ever. When writing is all I really have, it is like severing my limbs from my body when I do not have the ability to write.
Perhaps the drought is nearing an end. My brain has had flickering moments of clarity, signs of life that have not appeared in quite a while. It seems that normal life has a knack for destroying one's ability to focus on anything other than paying rent and working.
I can still live life the way it is intended to be lived, and rise above the common denominator of broken souls. Hopefully pull a few up, as well to join the ranks of the living.
March will be a month of writing for me. Every day, I will write something. A basic exercise, but hopefully a worthwhile one.