Rich, learn proper disposal of hazardous waste.

This is not the usual writer's block. It is not quite what Rich suffered through, although it was his idea that I blame him for this current case of minimal writing. I can write, honest I can. At least I think I could if I sat down and stared at the screen for a while. The problem is what to write. I am going in six and a half different directions right now and it is so hard to find that nice, still place inside that just lets everything flow. I start something, look at it, and find myself unable to figure out where it will go. I look through my stories awaiting my attention and none of them grab me, none of them yank me by the throat and demand that I work on them.

Apathy. It feels like apathy.

So busy with everything else, so distracted by other things, that when I do have some time to write I find myself randomly clicking around the internet. I can write about that, but it leaves me feeling unsatisfied. There are places I have not gone in too long, and I think the darkness is rising up in my mind, threatening to sink me under unless I find a little time to deal with it. But even then, the question is what do I write?

Nothing presents itself. There are no lightning strikes, no moments of clarity and illumination. My muse has run off with another writer and left me to fend for myself. Muse me, someone. A-muse me. Inspire me.

It is the time of waiting, the time when I wonder if I should force it, write just to write, or wait and see if something sparks some synapses. Perhaps I should read, try to find inspiration in someone else's work. Maybe I should just stick my nose in a book. I could just go do something else for a while. This is, after all, my "fun" writing. This is my chance to write what I want to write, not what will please my professors or my colleagues.

I want to write, though. I want to feel that rush when something just flows oh so easily from my brain to my fingers and it appears on the screen. That moment when I stare at the words and feel something.

I have ideas, lurking around, fermenting beneath the surface. Just nothing is popping like champagne yet. I would rather not shake me until the cork blows. I keep waiting for an idea to form up, to be ready.

Still waiting.

Maybe later.

The End

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