Friday, March 12

I haven’t written anything in a long time. I’ve been so busy working, and loving, and learning, and the words just don’t come to me anymore. My muse has given up on the idea that I’ll ever produce anything worthwhile; he’s left gradually, not in a big flash like I expected, but in the slow degenerative nature of my work lately. One day I can’t remember a word—it starts with an ‘a,’ I know, and it’s right on my fingertips—and the next, entire sentences elude me. Poems have become an anomaly (ha! That’s the word I was trying to find) and prose is nonexistent.

My muse was, for a long time, that voice that we all have in the back of our heads. The devil on my shoulder who says, You aren’t good enough. You aren’t good enough. You’ll never be good enough.

That faded with time and expensive therapy, and for awhile my muse was the other voice—the angel—who told me how much I deserved to be happy, and loved, and I’m a good person and all of this. But it appears positive thinking can only drive one for so long. As long as I’m running from my demons, I can find the words (they are, after all, my escape plan), but the moment the demons are caught and imprisoned, I have nothing to run from. I have no reason for the words except for love, and God knows love won’t keep anyone from sinning.

It’s not so bad without the words, though. All writers want is love, an audience, and I have that. Even if I can’t write I can still tell stories with my hands (even ones that my mouth would be too shy to say), and Ethan is an avid listener. Every night he reads the paper while I scan (forgive me, Father, for I have sinned; my liberal nature is left behind for what I see as better reporting), and then we lay down and kiss and tell stories. When I get stuck—what I used to call ‘writer’s block’—he is there to supply the thoughts.


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