I have been staring at blank bits of paper all weekend. I have huffed and puffed and covered them in doodles and rhythms going nowhere and spat rabid rants hoping that something will stick.
Sometimes, when I just start writing, I manage to squeeze something out, so I’m trying that here again. There has been no plotting, no careful draft. Last time I tried this I got a poem. I was very surprised.
But today I feel flat. I have ideas, half-baked floating around, but this time, I just don’t want to write.
What is writing doing anyway? How is writing contributing to a greener world, how is it sustaining me? I am languishing in that ‘it’s all bollocks!’ space. Wallowing in it.
Even this isn’t going anywhere, my souls just not there, I’m not feeling ‘it’, you know, that excitement of keyboard-under-finger or palm-against-paper.
There is no rush. The T.V. is on and not making sense, the sun is already high in the sky, I’ve cancelled all thoughts of work for the day, dreading the week ahead, I glanced at my schedule, screamed (honestly), slammed it shut and chucked it across the room.
Along with all the regular stuff is all the other inane stuff of life; service the car, pay the bills, do two months of laundry, get myself a haircut (my Afro’s become a fire hazard! ), wash the dogs – all eleven of them – shop for food (can’t live on toast), scrub the bath and toilet – not speaking to the living room yet, it’s getting the silent treatment for talking back.
Perhaps I’ll go for a run.
Maybe I’ll look through some prompts.
Likely I’ll send for a pizza, lie out on the verandah, soak in the sun, and wait for tomorrow.
-visit my poetry blog – Tomatos, Oranges and Other Fruit–
♦picture – webstockpro.com♦