Uninspired.

That about sums it up.

I used to LIVE for this blog.  I could not wait to write to you about anything and everything.  I loved your responses and I loved giving you more…generously and willingly feeding the monster…the blogging monster.

And now?  Now I struggle to do this.  I can’t seem to find the words.

It isn’t that I don’t love blogging.  It is that I cannot seem to…is this writer’s block?  Is this what it feels like?…where you TRY to come up with something to say or a way to say it and…pfft.

Nothing.

I partially blame this on stress.  Well, writing stress.  I feel so much pressure – mostly generated internally – to do this whole “write a book” thing.  And I sit down to try and write…I get nowhere.  The words I manage to write down are rambling and aimless.  I can’t figure out how to end the book.  I can’t seem to get it together.

I’m floundering.  In words.

It is like the stress of trying to write a book is actually making it worse.  It is making me unable to write anything.  And this is sad, because I love writing.  If I have a specific project to write about, then blam!  I’m golden.  I can do that.

Except, there aren’t too many specific projects going on right now.  This is partially why I have my Sex and the City Sunday posts.  It gives me a defined topic. It helps.

Then…THEN seeing things like, “saying you’re writing a book is the new ‘I’m going to be an actor’” only sends me farther down the spiral of doom.  I feel like I am wasting time.  No, I AM wasting time because I still haven’t finished this damn book – try as I might.

I’m frustrated.  I want to do this.

Why am I struggling so much?

Why is this so hard?

Why do I feel like it will all be for naught?

What if I fail?

What if nothing happens?

What if…

This is where I am.  I sit down, I try to write something or come up with an outline for my book or an ending and…tabula rasa.

I’ve perfected the blank slate.

I AM the blank slate.

Someone please pull me out of this.

Write on my slate.