The Bloody Doors Off

I’m in, for lack of a better word, a major funk.

It’s easy to blame Covid for this. Being in lockdown for months, barely leaving the apartment only to walk Auggie/check the mail/go to the pharmacy for prescriptions.

Work has been sporadic, but better than the entirety of last year. And we’re planning to take a week at a cottage for a much-needed break from the same four walls.

Creatively, though. I’m dry as a bone. And it’s not so much pissing me off, as just depressing me. I have friends who are trying to encourage me to write with them. And friend, lemme tell ya, the stuff we’ve written in the past is gold. Some of the finest ideas generated came with writing with Kate and Jess.

So why resist? No, scratch that. I’m not resisting. I’m afraid.

That I’m out of ideas. That anything I put down on paper is gonna be shit. (And yes, I get the irony of saying this as I write for the first time in ages in this blog.) I need to bite down on this bullet and not care if it blows up in my face.