There has been some considerable conversation as to whether or not I am still actually a functioning author. Well, I just saw a proof of a story that is going to drop this summer, so yes. That being said, the process to create that story was extremely taxing and pushed me far out of my comfort zone to the point where I have not actually written anything of worth since. This is of course assuming the piece in question was of worth. Tough speculations aside, I am not really writing.
I spent the evening curled up on the couch listening to the boys gleefully play while I watched bad tv. I didn’t read. I did not watch good tv. I just sat there bored and lonely and wasted more of the dwindling moments of my life. I worked for a few moments. I sent an email. I distractedly played a game. Then it was more bad tv. It is some sort of disease or illness I feel I have with such things. I fall into dark periods of nothingness between the words. I used to call it recovery, but now I think it is just the natural resting state for me as a writer. As we know, an object in rest…
Coming out of such a fugue state remains extremely difficult. I don’t know how to do it short of another deadline (note: It turns out I actually have one). I also lack any real ability to string these productive periods together together. I feel like a victim of bi-polar disorder whose highs are very very short and very very shallow; a wading pool for toddlers level of depth.