Sometimes words fly freely through my fingers, as messily and inelegantly as they flow through my fat mouth.
Sometimes they lie in weight near the tips, hovering with tingling magnetism and expectant power.
I wish my thought process was up to the obvious need I feel for writing. I'm not blocked my any means, I write for an occupation and do it well and often.
But when I look back on all the fiction I have written over the years and tucked away in folders and forgotten desktop icons, I feel a shameful flush come over my body from the heels of my feet up the back of my legs and rush into my mid-section. The center or my body and my weakest link, my stomach, begins to ebb and fall in waves of emotion. As is usually the case, I begin to feel nauseous.
Disappointed in myself and my inadequacies I sulk. I read contest entries and look at all the packages for magazine submissions I have accumulated over time.
Time to get back to work.
Now I'm even more disappointed. After reading this short post, I have realized what a whiny turd I am.
More sulking will commence forthwith.