It's a dreary Monday morning, overcast and drizzly. I've turned on the standing lamp but it doesn't seem to do much to drive off the intrusive bleak grey filtering in through the windows. I keep doing things beside writing, like reading things on the Internet and feeding the cat. Well, alright: the cat-feeding is necessary. But it isn't writing. Nor is getting up to get a second cup of tea in the hopes that its honey-soaked caffeinated goodness will kick my brain awake, though the first one seems to have rather failed at that task. It's something to do beside sit here and stare at the screen with the knowledge that I've not a decent idea for this blog.
I have writing projects, oh yes. At least three character-based projects and a smattering of short stories that need to be worked on. I feel a little like I do sometimes during National Novel Writing Month, when I'm behind on my quota and I'm just ... empty. I hate this feeling. An obvious solution, the cure for writer's block, is to just write something. I've given this advice to people, having learned it's true for myself. But there are days it's not so easy to push past that invisible wall of emptiness, hoping to find something bright and shiny on the other side. This is one of those days. I've been having a lot of them recently, and to be honest I've not tried as hard as I might to conquer the feeling, to get to the prize.
It's there, though, that prize. I can see it glimmering faintly through the clear Jell-O of this wall of blah. Pardon me whilst I go dig for it. Pass me the shovel, will you?