The lost writer

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I have forgotten how to write.

Alright, well maybe not, but I do feel like I’ve lost my voice.

The last few months it seems that there is no inspiration anywhere.  My writing has always been fueled by my emotions, and there has certainly been no shortage of emotional moments over the last couple of months.  The radio station alone has been one long emotional roller coaster since the end of July.  The emotional fuel tank is full.  There is just no destination for the ink pen.  My highway of words has been shut down.

I miss the moments when I could look around and get an idea for a poem or short story by seeing the breeze moving the trees or an oddly dressed person at the gas station.  I miss the late nights when a poem would write itself in my head and I would have to get out of bed to write it down just so that I could finally get to sleep.

There are no words to write anymore.  I have no muse.  I hold an ink pen in my hand and all I can do is stare at the blank page.  There are no characters that need their story told.  There are no lines of prose that need to flow forth.  There is simply nothing.

I have mental laryngitis.  Although I suppose most people would say it’s the bane of a writer’s existence . . . the two dreaded words . . . I have writers block.

Writer’s block . . . Take a look at those two innocuous words.  Separately they are unassuming, simple, and not at all terrifying.  But put them together as a phrase and it looms forth like a pillow over a writer’s face just waiting to suffocate.  What does a writer do when separated from their ink pen by a giant wall?  How does a writer speak when the words have run away?

I miss my voice.  I miss the weight of the ink pen in my hand and the way it flowed over the paper leaving gentle lines of a short story slowing telling itself to me, or the frantic and sloppy lines of a poem that needed to explode out of me like a passionate volcano.

I feel numb.

I feel shut down.

I am a writer who is lost.

Until next time . . .

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