Lately, it’s been a dry spell, writing-wise. I sit wide-eyed at the computer and tap away, only to abandon the page—two or three senseless sentences later. The words refuse to be strung together, they protest vehemently; those with ascenders flail their tiny fists, those with descenders stamp emphatically away in a sullen sulk.
I have returned to scribbling random phrases and ideas in a notebook, my trusty Steno pad that also faithfully safeguards the mundane: meeting notes, to dos, reminders, all the accoutrements of a day job. My habit with notebooks like this is that on the flip side, I write down ideas, impressions, turns of phrases, fragments of poems—things that could trigger a creative spell. I now have a severely schizophrenic Steno, but so far, no new output.
See, even my brain refuses to channel into organic thought. It prefers words like output, procedure, specifics, cycle, or that evil oxymoron, work flow.