EW

Ramblings on writing, crafting and life.

I look at the date of the last posting, and am assailed by guilt. Not that I have failed the single digit throng of readers who occasionally fall upon this place, but that I have failed myself. Months…just gone. Lost. Much like my erstwhile motivation. The muse..fickle bitch…is on holiday in Barbados. Apparently Florida isn’t striking enough this time of year. Or perhaps I wasn’t lavish enough in my blandishments? Either way, I find my path strewn with one obstacle after another. Inertia is winning the day. And I just can’t seem to muster enough moral outrage to beat it back with a stick. There are days when I look at it and wonder why…why have I chosen this? If I could just give up…life would be so much simpler. If it would be swept away into a corner and out the door with the dust of trekking feet… I wouldn’t have to constantly be at myself about I SHOULD be doing things. This thing…this..writing. It’s always there. Poking at me, prodding. That itch that can never quite be scratched to sufficiency. I’m never quite myself unless I’m doing it, in one form or another. If I’m not meandering across a journal page , pen tightly fisted, or prattling here, or elsewhere. I wonder if I could just remove that urge to write, would I be content? Could I roll along through the day not thwacking at myself? Not scribbling in attempt to get that feeling. You know that one, if you should suffer a similar urge to dabble in prose, to play with words. That unsurpassed moment when you have taken a blank spot, and put letters to make words, and words to show thoughts, and feelings. And you actually manage a credible impression of passing those things along to a reader – ANY reader. Even yourself.

I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t writing about something – somewhere. My world started with books, and words, and wonder. I similarly can’t imagine a life without them. I suppose that renders the previous question moot. Would I be myself without the urge to write. I can only assume the answer to be no. And so…I see literary spring arriving. Here I am again – and still. Seeking a kind of renewal. Hoping that nothing a basic as the drive to create can ever be lost.

At least not permanently.