Writing about not writing
My head is like today's sky which was clogged with an eerie Sahara sand. But, unlike my head, the sky cast a strange sepia light onto the earth below. I want to write, I see glimmers of the red sun, and clear skies in the distance, but however long I drive I can't quite reach them.
I took last week off. And half of the week before. And when I say off I mean off writing, off blogging. At first I tried other creative pursuits. I recorded film, I made my Instagram Stories mini-films, I read magazines, listened to podcasts.
Then I stopped doing those too and started clearing out the pantry, the utility, my daughter's bedroom. Trying to shift the debris in my house and in my mind.
And we're back to today. The day of hurricane Ophelia. The day of red sun and Sahara sand. A melancholy weighs down on my day. I record some words to camera, create a mini-film for Instagram Stories. I write a list but when it comes to blog content ideas, again, I hit a void. I pull out my novel and write down my ideas for scene one. This sounds good, like progress, until I tell you that I've done this about five times now over this past year. And got no further.
I'm so frustrated with myself. I know the advice. Be kind to myself. Stop forcing it. Take a break. But I'm done with that. I just want to crack on again. That feeling of being productive. I love that feeling. It's like a drug - I want it again and again.
So I'm writing this. I'm writing this to share how I currently feel in the hope it'll break the deadlock.
Because I want to write again.
Even if it means writing about how I'm not writing.