Every writer has good reasons for not writing. Writers as diverse as F. Scott Fiztgerald and Charles M. Schulz suffered from an inability to write at times. Such an affliction even has an official pschoanalytic term: writer's block.
But that's not why I'm not writing. I'm not writing because I have nothing to say, or nothing I can say in public these days.
Maybe thinking you have nothing to say is writer's block?
I can paint every day, no problemo. It's a relief to get away from the words in my head and replace them with colors, textures, line, and form.
I don't worry about making bad paintings. Who cares? It's the path I travel that counts, the things I discover through the process.
So maybe I'm a real painter but a fake writer.
Oh, the real/fake thing, one of my favorite bugaboos. I always think everything I am is fake. "Look at me, world. I'm a big fake."
You have to have a pretty big ego to worry about such things.
I'm trying to let go of that ego, to find the spaces between the thoughts and obsessions.
I look outside my window. The snow has stopped, but the ground is almost covered in white. Across the road, the tops of the pine trees sway in the wind.
That's what's happening outside.
I am inside.
Can I get out?
