Last week, all the literary "things" happened. I gave away books on Shakespeare's birthday, read poetry at a local bookstore, hosted a literary reading at an art gallery, and attended and read at an open mic. I offered advice to a friend as she chose a cover for her new book. I helped form a local writer's group. I had a Tiny Poem published in a wonderful magazine.
But the one thing I didn't actually do was...write.
I haven't written in a dog's age, as they say. I sit down in front of my computer or with a pen and my journal and nothing comes. Nothing.
I do everything but write, actually. I meditate and practice yoga. I work, of course, and run errands. Countless errands. I volunteer. I lift weights. I make healthy meals. I balance the check book. I walk the dog. Watch TV.
But I don't write.
There was a time that I would wake in the night with an idea fresh in my mind. I would get up and write and write until it was all out and I shook with relief. Something was created and purged and spoken into the ether all at once. I would sleep deep and feel refreshed. Other days I would form whole stories and essays in my my head as I ran. When I returned from my jog I would have to type furiously lest I forget my ideas.
But not now.
Perhaps my Muse will return. Maybe not. For now, I think, my role is to watch others as they write and help them when I can.
Maybe I'll write tomorrow.
But not now.