For the past few days, I've been recycling things I wrote years ago--because the stories mean something to me, and I don't think I'll ever try to publish them.
I've also been recycling because I'm dry. I haven't seemed to be able to tap into the wellspring of creativity for a couple of weeks now. It happens from time to time, and I try not to let it get me down. (For one thing, if I dwell on it, it starts to feed itself. I think about how I'm having a hard time writing and then I can't write, so I dwell on it... vicious circle, here I come.)
Yesterday I thought I had it licked. I started to write a little ditty for a themed literary magazine. I got it all written out and then... I started to think my writing sucks. It doesn't, of course. I'm just feeling that way. This big amorphous blob of self-doubt has plopped on my parade route. (Hey. That rhymes. Maybe I should be writing poetry.)
I could always blame it on the snow, I guess. It's sapping the life right out of me. Yeah yeah, that's the ticket.
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