I can’t really say I’m
suffering from writer’s block. It’s more like “blecch.” Kind of what
you’d feel the morning after a car wreck, or having drunkenly walked
into a concrete streetlight. Somewhat, but not completely, like a hangover. Akin to a mild flu afflicting only the creative system.
Look at yourself in the bathroom mirror. Pull one lower eyelid down
with your finger. Stick your tongue out. You realize you look like
Mad Magazine’s Alfred E. Neuman.
Not sure exactly what has caused this. It’s probably a combination of one or more of the following:
- Deep undercurrent of social panic regarding the world financial situation
- Relocation stress
- iPhone addiction
- Insurmountable procrastination
- Farm area harvest time allergies
- My soul is still somehow off-center
When all is said and done, the most likely cause is the iPhone
addiction. I can’t keep my hands off the freaking thing. It’s hard to
work on a novel when you spend 3 hours a day dinking with a little toy
computer that doesn’t even have a keyboard.