Writers Anonymous
Got to love these nights of insomnia. I've had a thought. An epiphany, if you will. I have writer's block. Nothing is wrong with my life, but I have writer's block. Apparently I can articulate misery and self-fulfilling prophesies all day long, but I have nothing to write about when things are good. I sit up till' 4 in the morning writing meaningless rambling strings of incomprehensible claptrap, and when I read back over my night's labor, it feels like nothing. Not a part of me. No insight into my inner psyche. No answers for unasked questions. This sucks. I've lost the one thing that never fails me. Since I was 11, my ability to write is one of the very few things I've actually taken pride in. I was always praised for it. Published , even. It felt like a determining factor in who I am. "Who's Natalie? Oh you know... that girl that's always writing in a beat up notebook." I was a writer. A writer was Natalie. I've lost it, and I want it back. Even this nonsense... this incoherent amble of word vomit... it doesn't feel like it's doing me any good. They say the first step is admitting the problem. Well, here is my admission. Now will someone please tell me what step number two is?