March 11, 2012
Lately I've been experiencing a blankness. Writing creatively feels like a struggle even though I thought I'd become such a facile writer over the past several years. I'm not sure whether I have nothing to say or am having trouble getting it said. Notice the lapse in my blogging schedule. As an author, I'm disheartened by this literary constipation. But I'm not, in general, depressed or dissatisfied or disgruntled. In fact, I feel quite at peace.
Could it be, then, that I'm outgrowing my need to write? Perhaps I've emptied myself of all the mental clutter, the static that interferes with meditation. Not a writer's block, but an elevated state of enlightenment. I like that thought, though what will I do in place of writing. I'm too old to go to law school, would be miscast as a real estate agent, and too inconsistent to attempt to upgrade my at-home cooking skills into any kind of business.
I don't really believe that I'm experiencing a bliss based on not writing. But I am thinking that writer's block, or something like it, might not always be a bad thing. I hope my ease with words will return one day soon, and for now I think I'll just trust that it will.