On Not Writing

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.