So I just checked my blog and realized that I haven’t written a story in over three months. Three months! That is easily the longest time between stories since I started the blog over five years ago. I have written 157 stories, which works out to about 30 a year, or about one every two weeks.
And of course, my thoughts are not that linear. It goes in spurts. There was one month where I wrote thirteen stories. I guess I just had a lot on my mind that month.
Which is not to say I haven’t had much on my mind these past three months. Certainly there have been many times in this period where I have thought, ‘that would make a good blog story,’ but I can never seem to form it into a cogent, cohesive story.
I believe this is what they call Writer’s Block.
So here I am writing a story about not being able to write a story.
But it goes a bit deeper than that. It’s not that I cannot seem to cobble thoughts together. It’s more a matter of, well shit, I’ve said what I wanted to say. 157 times. Certainly I have had material to opine on, but they are subjects which I already done. Politics? Y’all know where I stand on that, and even though Conservatives have given me much to lambaste them on; after all, they did shut down the government over not liking a law, but that subject has been done.
I’ve written seven stories on Miami, my new home. A half dozen on my mom’s passing. At least a dozen on rock and roll. And y’all don’t really care about my golf game.
So what else is there? I just described my life in its current state. I love Miami, I miss my mom, the job is great and I hate the Tea Party. And I shot 81 today with two birdies. I am NOT going to talk about the Cleveland Browns. They have already sucked enough life out of me.
So I hope I have only hit a dry patch of topics and the imagination will be rekindled. But what I fear is something more insidious:
I fear I've lost my muse.
Writers need an inspiritive spark. When I wrote my novel last summer, that spark turned into a five-alarm fire, and I could not write fast enough. I would dash home from work and write until I would look up to see it was midnight. It was a frenetic time where I was amazingly alive; thoughts flowed like Niagara Falls.
So I am thankful to my muse for that period. And maybe this is how she works – she gives and then she takes away. I mean, no writer is inspired all the time. So how do I get her back? Burnt offerings? Chanting? Meditation? Virginal sacrifices?
Where did she go? Did I piss her off? Did I bore her to death? Is she saying "Jerry, you’ve told the world what you needed to tell. Now, if you will excuse me, I have to give Stephen King yet another way to scare the crap out of people.”
Please come back, muse. I need you. I miss you.
I need to write. Please fill my head with something.