Last night, leaving through a collection of Cavafy's poetry, I came upon these lines:
I attend to my work and I love it.
But today the languor of composition disheartens me.
The day has affected me. Its face
is deepening dark. It continues to blow and rain.
I would sooner see than speak...
There is no artist who does not recognize the sensation being documented. It comes periodically, sometimes without any identifiable source. But if you're going to make a living creating things, it's something you've got to get used to.
Monday, I could not think of a thing worth blogging about. Nor did I feel any need. Tuesday was more of the same. Today, however...
Today, for the third day in a row, I felt not the least desire to do anything at all with words. So I put together an interview I had promised to turn in by Sunday. Then I finished and polished three flash fictions for Dragonstairs Press and did a great deal of revision and rephrasing on the fourth. Then I cobbled together this post.
Writers are moody cattle, God wot. But when you make a living at this stuff, periodically you've juste got to pull yourself out of the muck of despond and get on with things.
This was, for those who are paying attention, a lesson aimed at gonnabe writers. If you missed the point, then maybe you don't want to get into the business.