Who Gets the Flu in July?

Apparently, it’s this guys right here.

You may ask what a sick person like myself is doing awake at 4 o’clock in the morning, hammering away at a keyboard when just trying to put coherent thoughts together makes his head hurt?   Well, I’ll tell you…

I must be some kind of idiot, masochist or both.

I guess you could say that I was just sitting here, awake because I cannot get comfortable, thinking about how I don’t write much of anything anymore.  It’s almost like I’ve forgotten a little bit of my soul somewhere back there on the roads that I’ve traveled.  Once, I enjoyed sharing my thoughts on this here website, but places like Facebook and Twitter have made sharing so easy it’s hard for a lazy man not to take full advantage of them.

As more time passes, I am feeling drawn back to my roots.  Almost like a siren song, I faintly hear my unfinished novel calling to me, asking for completion.  I’m tired of shrugging and letting it linger, almost as if completing it would mean that it would be up for being judged (and along with it, myself).  Is it going to be too long?  Fragmented?  Dull?  Are the characters trite and unconvincing?  Are their actions believable and their motivations solid?  Oh God, there goes my spinning brain again…

I used to write poetry, songs, short stories and skits.  Where did all that creativity go?  When did my muse leave me?

I look in the mirror and I don’t see a writer.  I see a dull shell, an empty husk of an artist who once had the will to put pen to paper and bend words to his will.

Finding and regaining that will, that creative spark…?  We shall see…

I suppose acknowledgment is the first step.

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