I keep staring at this blank page.
A few years ago everything exploded and I lost the will and ability to write.
The will is beginning to return, I think, maybe, I don’t know—but I still feel like I have a concussion. I feel clumsy, literal and too immersed in my own experience to describe anything with grace or perspective. I look back at some of my earlier scrawlings and can’t believe the pretty sentences came out of my brain.
It’s not that I’m doing poorly—I often feel downright elated, despite the myriad things I still need to figure out, which is wonderful. A mysterious blessing. I guess I just feel embryonic. I’m boneless, and the concrete quality of the written word feels … unhelpful. Adverse.
But I remember having fun here, and liking you guys. So, here I am: reincarnated and gestating (into who knows what), feeling a little indistinct, and also protective of that.