Fingers to keys, phone to my ear, eyes drifting to and fro in my room, I have to admit it. I have had serious writers block this entire summer. Its maddening. That idea, that thought which may be inspiration, seems to spiral twist build culminate only to die and disperse into nothing once I try to form it, construct it and define it on paper. Thats it, the defining it. Thats where I struggle. I try too hard, and in trying so hard it becomes more elusive, slipping further and further out of my reach until I wonder if the thought was ever even there, was it real? Was it any good? Was it so horrible that I just gave up on it before embarrarsing myself? Bone upon bone, I think thats how Keats describes it, thats what it feels like at times when trying to produce and formulate my thoughts (no blonde jokes here). Grinding, unrelenting, unyielding seems this process right now, yet it retains enough of an enticement to keep me trying to push past it all.

This too shall pass.