I don’t want to write anymore. Right now.
This is where I’ve been for about a year.
I imagine it’s like a cold, gray place – made of painted cement blocks, where a 13″ Zenith TV plays a hair-sprayed televangelist in a continuous loop.
And the only food is chipped beef on toast.
Where I lie on a futon mattress in the corner, scrawling beginning sentences for blogs and short fiction, only to scratch them out again.
But seriously, brilliant ideas hit me all the time – interrupting my sleep and my drive home.
So, it’s not the lack of ideas that’s keeping me from writing.
It’s the will, y’all.
And I’m worried all the time.
The Empire keeps winning, and the Jedi are all dying, and the Revolutionaries won’t stop fighting among themselves.
And I want to be there, right in the middle of it all, writing and stirring shit up…
But a cartoonist was fired today.
And writers are being attacked.
And 45 wants us to goosestep.
I can no longer watch the news without shouting.
I am angry all the time and I hate everything.
I am anxious about everything.
I am over-protective of my loved ones.
And I am too busy trying to hold myself together with both hands.
So no… nothing is being written right now.
I’ll be back soon, though.
I just… need a minute.