Writer's block?

I cannot sit down to write and think of.. nothing. It's never happened. There's always something.
Unless, of course, you're trying to make something that isn't there appear. This came to me a couple of weeks ago, and I'm keepin' it forever:
There are no blank pages, many are simply undeveloped.
Remember "old school" film development? Unless we're professional photographers or die-hard artists, most of us never enter the world of film development anymore. Digital is great, but, remember? There was something there; it was hard to see; mostly outlines, dark and light, but not detail visible without light and magnification. And we hoarded them like gold; the film negative.
I look at a blank page, and that's kind of what I see. The moment you begin to write, it develops.
Just as lots of the old photos I took ended up "buy backs," ('cause it's never been my gift!), a lot of times I'm not thrilled with the results of a writing session. But that doesn't mean it's not there, and not valid for some purpose, even if it's only to keep us writing; attempting, moving forward, developing. And, it also doesn't mean it will never develop pleasingly; save it for later, and sometimes the results are surprising! That's one advantage we writers have over film; the editing is a whole lot simpler.
Writers should never not write; I tried it. I didn't like it. It's miserable.
A writer not writing is like running your car without oil. To pretend there's "nothing" there is unfaithfulness at it's worst; to yourself, and to the craft. The lack is not of creativity; rather, of your commitment. If you have the gift, you have the fuel, the lube the negative.
All you have to do is use it.

Crrrrushed....

...and not eating, not sleeping, not caring much about anything except the object of my affection. On my mind all day, all night, I s'pose, when I can remember what dreams there could possibly be; none better than he. Wakes me at all hours, like yet another baby to nurse. Every distraction from his attention is deemed a nuisance, depriving me of my passion. World, go feed, clothe, and tend yourself. My lover awaits; lovingly, longingly. My lover is insatiable, unrelenting in pursuit. My lover is an obsession, a calling. His desire is for me alone, his words falling only from my lips; I am all that he knows, and only he can reveal all that I am. He overflows with inspiration; a gushing spring, desperate to be imbibed, to become and integral and nourishing element of me; to unite us forever in purpose and motion. He is jealous, and I will neither tease nor betray; no, I cannot trifle any longer with his pure affections. He has waited far too long. His intention clear, his proposal awash in unerring devotion; we must be.
Quite the mystery "man", no?

Care to Dance?

http://tinyurl.com/62claex
This would be a good album for such occasions. I can't be still when it's on. I love it. So there.

A friend warned me: "It can be a lonely undertaking, this writing thing...".

I recently found pure delight in the solitary study of writing; when it was again fresh and long overdue.

Not so much later, I'm starting to see and understand the inevitability and wisdom of his words; but only starting.

Is the loneliness bound in needing to be alone, wishing to be alone, or being made to feel alone? Is it an agent for good, for ill, or simply another tool; amoral and malleable? Should it be released or embraced? Is it a fuel or an abatement? A blessing or curse?

One true statement; many good questions.

The death of me...

...giving life to 4 children. They are the death of pride, privacy. They were the death of creativity for years; and of freedom.

Then, there's the other side of the coin. While they often kill intimacy, they sometimes create it at another level. They sometimes create a unique freedom, because they provide excuses for many things. They force you to be places and do things you otherwise wouldn't; they stretch their parents to the point that they are reshaped, and i don't just mean the flabby mom-belly.

They are the source of constant entertainment and annoyance. Children provide a horrifyingly real mirror that can be most instructive. Their comments can injure like no others, and they can validate as deeply. They reign in the tendencies of the wild and weak, and bring down the empires of kings.

They also give you something to think about, write about, dream about. A frightening but inspirational lot, children. They are the death of the old me; the person I was before. While I gave life to them, mine was being remade. It hurts, no lie. It can hurt a lot. It also inspires and motivates. I realize that now that if I don't follow my dreams, and use my gifts, I can't expect them to use theirs; for themselves, or for me; for the Lord or for anyone. Being all I was made to be is the best way to ensure they will fulfill this one treasured hope i have for them: that they will shine like stars where they are gifted, and appreciate and know the Giver of all good gifts. So, my giftedness still intact, and probably better after years of change, I now venture out against my fears; success, failure. Mostly success. Failure is an everyday occurrence; success, not so much. Or maybe not as easily acknowledged? Either way, scary. I need to shine. It's what my name means!
Anyway, as they slowly mature, I mature. We die, and are remade; we pour ourselves into them, and they are poured into us. And then, one day, it's just time for the next thing. Crawl, walk, run, fly from the nest, play in traffic.

Come alive; live the dream.