It’s been a long, dry summer. And while it would be true, I’m not referring to the weather. I am talking about my well of creativity and inspiration. Apparently something has stopped up the spring that normally feeds it, if in sporadic and seemingly uncontrollable spurts, and all that remains now is a bit of soggy muck at the bottom (to beat a metaphor to absolute death.)
It wasn’t supposed to be this way. With my kids away visiting various grandparents, or off at day or overnight camp much of the summer, I realized early on that I might actually have a fair amount of time on my hands these couple of months. Perfect for indulging in hours of uninterrupted writing. I had visions of a completed manuscript (if, in fact, such a wonder actually exists, which in my mind it doesn’t, even after publication) in my hands come September, followed by an autumn of gleefully considering various offers from competing publishers and agents in an effort to determine the best home for my “baby.”
(My imagination, at least, apparently hasn’t withered and dried up completely – has in fact clearly ratcheted up to a level approaching delusion, which for a fiction writer can actually be a good thing, so that’s a hopeful sign.)
Instead, however, in an instance of extremely bad timing, I have been hit with serious case of writer’s block. In fact, I have been wanting, for some time now, to write this post on that very topic, but was never able to call up the words to make the attempt, in spite of repeated efforts.
I think it’s the heat. Or the extreme, uncharacteristic and therefore almost eerie, silence in my house. Possibly even, and this is the most likely culprit, the fact that I have fallen right out of my usual routine. (My usual routine involving being dragged out of bed, very much against my will and genetic make-up, at the crack of dawn to make lunches and assist with the homework I forgot to check to make sure was done the night before. I have been able, in fact, to live like a genuine artistic type much of the time, staying up half the night and sleeping well into the day. Which would all be well in good if I at least had the creative by-products that one hopes would accompany such a bohemian lifestyle in hand when I did deign to drag myself out of bed.)
Whatever the cause, the muse has departed.
Of course, I know in my head that the source of my creativity has neither departed nor dried up. Something, however, is preventing me from hearing the still, small voice these days. Whether this can be attributed to one of the aforementioned causes, or to a more deeply spiritual one (also a definite possibility), I obviously have some soul-searching to do to determine.
Here’s hoping (and praying) that I may be able to do so in the near future, so that at some point I may be able to put together, if not a completed novel, at least a coherent blog post of some sort or other.
Anything to lift me out of all this soggy muck.
Press on, my friends. Press on,