A Confession

When I started this blog I called it a commitment to myself. It was supposed to be something I meticulously maintained, a public expression of myself and what I like to do.

But I'm starting to realize that there are some things about myself that are inescapable. For example, I have an inability to be consistently prolific. There times in my life when I write everyday, sometimes twice a day. I write everything that pops into my head for better or for worse. Then there are times like now. These are the times when trying to write something worth reading (who am I kidding, something worth writing) seems utterly and painfully impossible. Putting my fingers to the keyboard becomes an arduous task, one that fails to bring joy in the way to which I am accustomed.

My writing life moves in cycles. They come and go without warning. I never know for sure what to expect until I sit down at the computer and find my fingers repelled by the keys. It is at that point that I know my writing is finished for awhile.

These phases never last. That is my comfort. I know that any day now I will sit down and be compelled to write. At that point I will again be able to (hopefully) entertain you with random meanderings of thought. Until then, bear with me as I wait out this cycle.