This should perhaps explain my absence, and my impending absence for the next month or so.
Writing has always been something I have found rather easy.
As a child my imagination knew no boundary, and I could write these fantastical gibbering pieces of sprawling prose, and the next day repeat and repeat and repeat until I had notebooks full of the contents of my brain purged onto the page.
As I grew up, this imagination seemed to dissipate, and I found it progressively harder to think of pieces to write, ideas for poems or pieces of prose or whatever I felt like writing that day. But I still had ideas, could still project them onto the page, and I would still be coming out with a piece of writing at least once a week.
Said pieces of writing sat in notebooks, or buried deep on my computers hard-drive and never saw the light of day again, but that was okay because they’d been written. They existed now, and my brain felt slightly lighter.
But that’s changed.
I feel uninspired all of the time.
I have no desire to write.
I try to write something, anything, but the only words that fall onto the paper are disjointed, ugly, jarring and simply wrong.
The pieces make no sense, have no meaning, and are painfully emotionless. I have no more emotion left to expel from myself, and that worries me.
I am writing this, to let you know, Dear Protagonize, that I have been- and thus will be- absent for a while.
I do not want to force out words that mean nothing to me, for I would feel like a fraud. Words are my weapon, my defense. I have no words left, and until they come back to me, I will not write them down. I refuse.
I will still be here, lurking as per usual, and commenting on other people’s work. I enjoy this. I enjoy reading your work, because you are all so talented.
Perhaps one of you will inspire me. Perhaps not. Perhaps I will never write anything again. Perhaps I will never publish a book, an anthology of poems, a simple letter in a news paper.
Perhaps I am not a writer.