I haven’t really been writing lately. At all. I have a lot of ideas swimming around in my head but so many things distract me. This isn’t the first time lack of focus has hit me. This time, though, feels like I’ve given up on myself. I have more doubt than material. More questioning attitude than positive. More worry than hope. I love to pour my words onto the pages to breathe life into the worlds that dance in my head. So why, why is that the writer in me has gone on sabbatical and forgotten to forward my focus? Why is that while the worlds continue to dance around, flaunting their imagination and creativity, I cannot stop and put the words down on the pages? It’s almost like an asthmatic fit. I see them. Feel them. Nearly taste them. Yet I cannot exhale them into physical existence. It’s smothering, suffocating, crippling me mentally. I want to write. I want to give them their due. I want them to live on the pages and share their lives. I want them to live out what they have started in my mind. There are so many things that have been started yet are resting impatiently in my mental limbo simply because I cannot start. I cannot take the time to clear my reality for their reality. I hear it all the time. “Make time for writing”. We all know that is the key but we also know that it is easier said than done. So I either continue to beat myself for it; forget it all together; or I get over it and sit down, take a deep breathe, and breath their release on to the pages.
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