That’s what my brain went just now as I sat to write; it went blank.  So I’m writing about that.  I write a lot about my inability to write, the resistance I feel to it, the sense of dread of putting letters on the page.  Which is funny since I used to love it.  A lot.

Laura was here the other day and even she remembered when we went to a diner to write.  We took over the table for a few hours.  Lunch, lots of coffee and a waitress who thought what we were doing was cool.  We tipped according to time, too, as opposed to the food bill.  The waitress appreciated that.

I remember being at pool parties – the all weekend long kind – and Laura and I would trade notebooks to see what the other was writing.  The support was amazing.

Maybe I should find a local writing group.  It may be a good way to spend a weeknight or a weekend afternoon.  I could make some friends and get some feedback and support. But even that seems like a chore. PEOPLE! And small talk.

Ugh, small talk. Blech.

I WANT to write.  It’s just that I’m so old now.  It’s too late to find my voice.  That sort of suffering is for the young and the resilient.  I’m not quite either of those things anymore. I was never particularly resilient even at my prime, honestly.  Fear of rejection has always been a fear.  Pouring my heart and soul into a thing to have it pissed on is frightening.

“Fear is the mind killer.”

“We have nothing to fear but fear itself.”

But fear is still pretty scary.

So here I sit, another whining session where I just sort of belch onto the page.  I guess it’s a start.  Maybe it will help get the crap out of my head so real ides can start to come out; churn the compost as it were.  But it really comes down to fear.

And laziness.  But that’s for another time.

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