writers write

Decades ago, my young daughter reproached me with those words: writers write. It has haunted me lately because I haven’t been—writing, that is.

I could blame the extremely thick Florida heat.
I could say I am distracted and out of sorts since giving up sugar about 6 weeks ago.
I could curse the atmosphere at my day job.
I could bemoan being homesick for the Jersey Shore—the real one, not the TV variety.
I could complain about my shifting work schedule.
I could whine about being empty, with naught to say.

While all this may be true, it matters not.
My daughter is correct: writers write.
All else is irrelevant.

There are few things more miserable to be near than a “non-writing” writer. So I find myself avoiding people when not at work, trying in vain to pressure myself to produce.

As for what I’m doing here, writing about how I’m not writing, it’s akin to those Seinfeld shows where they jabbered on about “nothing.” Big yuk.

I guess I’m just trying to prime the pump, move my fingers across the keys in the hope that something will catch. It’s a bit like going through the motions of exercise, meditation et al...sort of the ol’ “fake it until you make it.”

Writers write. Writers write. Writers write...