More like writer's blockhead. 'Cause I just realized, after a few weeks of insomnia-like behavior, that I'm desperately wanting to write something (bigger than a blog, understand), and I'm—yes—blocked! I guess I wasn't letting myself in on the secret till tonight. Always the last to know.
I sit here many nights into the single-digit hours, playing [evil, don't touch it, walk away] Snood; contemplating major projects (scanning my mom's pics, actually writing real Christmas cards, doing some genealogy); hanging with my friends online; checking e-mail...but I'm not writing. I'm stepping around the chalk outline of this project I need to launch.
It's not like I'm not writing—dribs, e-m's, blogs, drabs, and poems are happening year-round. However, truthfully, I've avoided the prospect of significant writing for a few years, now. I had rock-solid excuses: Gave birth twice (swelling our kid ranks to four). Job was stressful (that one's on repeat every day). Injured my back by falling off a futon, semi-attached to my spouse at the time (that hurt and took months to heal, but the picturesque quality never fades). Mother became sick, then after agonizing illness, died. Best friend died without any warning whatsoever.
But they are excuses, aren't they? Any one of them is a written piece waiting to emerge. And I fobbed on it.
Well, I feel like I can get a good night's sleep now, after this revelation. Perchance to dream, and hence to write? Geez, I hope so. If not, at least I know why now. Because I always read about "writer's block" and thought, "Hah. That must suck. Never happens to me." Ahhhh, but it does and it has. Zounds.