I apologize to my regular readers for the slow in posting this month. Turns out, I am a typical writer who gets writer's block. How boring! How trite! My symptoms have been analogous to images of blocked writers across American media; pacing, feigning, brooding, moments of crisis, moments of dullness and moments of brilliance have all prevailed. Bound in a state of ennui, I was able to reflect in attempts to make sense of and relieve my moratorium. Reflection for me, however, is not a quiet activity and really put my cognitive cogs into high gear. Today, I am exhausted.
Americans like to point the finger at stress for many a shame in their life and I cannot blame them; I am one of them. I won't say much more, the internet needs one less person to elaborate on the woeful existence of a writer, it's really not that bad a life.
I hope in an easement of mind I can again communicate about the world around me. And I hope that easement comes soon. I am getting profoundly off track and even read half of Oliver Twist, and that was just one of the facets in the mirror.
