I’ve entered into what I’ve come to call my February Funk, a time when nothing creative seems to happen in my life.
The world around me is mysteriously frozen in time
both literally as well as figuratively; a soul sucking period of time
I just pray I get through.
How do I write through this?
I ask myself this question on an almost daily basis.
I have nothing to say but the repetitive writing motions must somehow stay the same.
I look at what’s happening in the world for inspiration or at the very least an idea or three.
Let’s see, Anna Nicole Smith died (a real frickin’ surprise for a woman that was just one bag of crazy anyway),
the Celtics lost their 16th game in a row (another surprise, God they suck),
Mike Tyson is going back into rehab…a redundancy capable of making me nauseous, another chopper goes down in Iraq and now I’m primed for writing, right?
Give me copious amounts of liquid Dilantin via IV tube… reduce my electrical conductance amongst my brain cells, please.
My life feels like a lesson in futility and repetition.
But Groundhog’s Day was almost a week ago and I’m desperately seeking my shadow because the thought of hibernation just isn’t an option.
So here I am on a 5:30 local train (making all the stops) that I swore I’d never take again. I’m writing right now for God only knows what kind of lame brained reason.
Can perseverance actually feel like stupidity?
My internal censor has already given me a big ‘thumbs up’ to that query.
My writing days will cease the day I find myself creating what I consider to be nothing short of chicken scratch.
That worries me because I wonder if I’m doing that now?
Put down the pen and just walk away.
Could I do it?
Or would I live out the rest of my days as an impoverished and incomplete artist that just didn’t travel the road quite far enough?
My words presently feel as predictable as the names of the numerous train stops I’ve committed to my long term memory.
Yesterday I said to my wife, “If I could stop the world, I’d gladly get off…”(my own utopian and totally unreasonable method of escape)
But in the ageless words of Robert Frost—I have promises to keep.
As simple or as complicated as that sounds, the pure sentiment keeps me writing, my two feet firmly on the ground and my eyes forever on the stars above.
There’s one up there shining for me.
I just know it.