I want to write, but I can’t seem to get going. I can’t seem to find a subject or a story or a line of words in a row that will stoke the engine and prime the pump. Have I run out of words or just out of steam?
Maybe I’m just in reading mode. Maybe I have lost a part or worn it out. There’s no ork in me. I like the word ork. I can’t even think what the correct translation is in English. It’s not really motivation, and it’s not really energy, although it has elements of both. And it’s not really will, since that implies choice, and my choice is always for energy and motivation and will. Alas, alack, I have none.
Okay, I have some.
But only a little bit. *squeezes out another sentence*
Some days I feel like writing is like toothpaste in a toothpaste tube. You squeeze and you roll up the end but eventually you’ve gotten everything out and there is no more. Time for a new tube!
Some days it’s like the first flush of green in spring. Today was the first day the buds became leaves here in Flyinge. A hedge flushed and some small trees went up in leaves. The tractors are flocking and the fields have been turned under, their rich loamy undersides exposed to the warmth. The lungwort is up, perkily pink and purple, and little leaves of the lupine I transplanted last year have come up; stars on stalks.
I am hungry for something, but I don’t know what.
Hungry head. Hungry heart. Hungry in my belly with a growly tiger grumble.
Everyone else has more words than I do. Sad ones, happy ones. Tired ones. I wonder what keeps you here. What keeps you coming back? Lately, I can’t imagine.
Aha! Perhaps that’s my problem.