“I’m tired, can’t think of anything and want only to lay my face in your lap, feel your hand on my head and remain like that through all eternity.”
That quote, Dear Reader, sums up my current state perfectly.
But I should be so lucky. As I’m writing this I sit beneath my favorite tree, trying to force some shred of inspiration to flow from my fingers.
But I can’t.
Kafka also said that a non-writing writer is a monster courting insanity. I can only agree. The blocked up creativity is building a crescendo of screaming ideas and voices in my mind and it is wearing me down.
Every time I feel an idea start to take shape, a new one springs forth.
I make notes of them and try to flesh them out, save them for later and sort them through, hoping I will lay them to rest so I can focus on only a few. But they just keep building up, blocking me.
Even while I sleep.
The past week alone I’ve had four ideas come to me in my dreams. In one of them I actually dreamt that I dreamt a story idea, how about that?
I’ll keep trying, though.
But, now my fingers are getting cold, my spirits are getting low and my stomach is growling.
I’ve had better days…