Its been hard for me write this past week. Yesterday I spent some time with my coffee staring at the flashing cursor on the computer screen, unsure of how to proceed or what to do. After some time had passed I started to write, three beginnings sit unused and barely legible. Is my life so boring that I can't muster one post this week? That is entirely possible. I have removed myself from the inevitable election, weary of the adds, the smear, the lies, the promises, and the bickering that obscure the issues at hand. I have removed myself from religious controversy and I haven't read anything in a couple of weeks. (I will book binge for two or months straight and then fall into a barren spell in which I will read nothing at all.)
The truth is that I have been exhausted. Tired, worn-out, and unable to get up and motivated in the mornings. This, right here, is a supreme challenge for me and each passing line is a mental mountain to climb. Bereft of creativity it is apparent to me that to write, lucidly and with little effort I have to be reading as well, I have to be immersed in language. It is worth the inconvenience of the library to maintain a stack of books to read. It is worth a re-visit to the home library to re-read an old stand bye. It is important for writers to read.
I am afraid that is the extent of my powers this morning.
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