We just returned from a little jaunt to NYC. You might think that would lead me to write about a Big Appletini or other such thing, but truth is, I don’t have it in me. I can’t even dig in to uncover fodder for a cliche. I’ve faced some roadblocks with my book proposal and the search for an agent that gets its premise and gets me. Instead of getting fired up and motivated, I feel like an ostrich with my head in the sand. Surely this is a sign of weakness. Confidence never was my strong suit. My moxie tank is running on empty. And top top things off (see…cliches are a sure sign of a downward spiral), I have writer’s block.
I have notebooks full of content idea, but nothing is inspiring. Nothing moves me. Nothing makes my fingers tap effortlessly across the keyboard in their own clickety clack dance. My brain lies still. My fingers sit crossed in my lap or cover my face as my head plops in defeat. And dude, I have two lively, silly sons. It’s not like the content fairies didn’t sprinkle their magic dust all over my house (not to be confused with the actual dust).
Sigh.
And then, as I was procrastinating looking for inspiration farting around on Pinterest, I saw this:
This cocktail is called Writer’s Block.
Face palm.
Kismet.
Fate.
Coincidence.
Call it what you like. I think it’s a sign.
And just like that, I want to write again.