I’m feeling empty. This morning I was depressed about everything. That passed. This evening, as I try to write, I look at the empty words and quasi-depression returns. I’d like to say it was a delicious depression, but if I did, I’d be deluding myself. As I attempt to write parts of stories, I feel a terrible inability to say something. I look back and wonder what value the words have. They are repeated words, words said a million times as filler for something more meaningful. I know I’m consternating and should suck it up, but it’s difficult when I write such words, and when I don’t know if any of my words will ever have meaning. I want to reach beyond this medium, to find someway of saying things that is special for me.

You know that feeling when nothing you do or say is adequate. That’s where I am now. Where every word I write bangs me over the head and I wonder what the use is.

A few stories are spinning through my head, and I’m trying to grab hold of them. It doesn’t provide much of an excuse for my poor output, but I’m hoping a weekend in California will open my clogged pores.

I know, shut up already and write something. I’m getting to that.