I fear that I have nothing to say: no stories, no philosophies, no discoveries. Only emptiness greets me. My words stagnate, caught at the base of my throat, no water washes them down and no fingers yank them up. I stare into space and the void stares back; it is my solitary friend. My thoughts race before me, neither going anywhere nor returning from anyplace. They skip through my roaring head and find no handholds.

There are stories to tell, places to visit, characters to inspect, philosophies to share. And yet, I sit and what do I do? Nothing. I sit and sweet words tumble off my fingers and find no foundation. Thoughts crave to break free, form into ideas, and I impede them, commanding them to slink back to the dark caves where they formed. A lack of inspiration does not keep me from going forth. Nor fear of failure. Instead, it is the dread of doing. The status quo pushes and pulls at my soul until there is nothing left.

Ideas are plentiful and my well is deep, but the bucket is small and the thin rope frayed. It takes long dips into my well to pull up enough to drink. I can’t even count the dips needed to bathe. Concentration is my enemy, focus deserts me. Why do I fight it? I want to reach down and let it come to me. I don’t want to sit here and stare at nothingness. Nothingness is my curse. The status quo is my companion. The rope is breaking and I am helpless.

I have time now. There will not be another opportunity when I have this time. I should be using this time. I have to stop pretending and start doing. Stop complaining and start writing. I’m going to share what I write. No longer will I hide it behind Stephen King’s directions. While I say I don’t care about this website, that’s not accurate. Posting gives me the excuse to sit down and write. Without the deadline, the looming nothing-posted-in-weeks messages, I wouldn’t write.

I’ve noticed a pattern. I write a bitter, angry, or consternating musing. I wait at least three weeks, and then I complain how I don’t write enough, usually blaming something as innocent as television or video games for my transgression. This time, it was the traveling: jetlag, sickness, lack of sleep, and other devices kept me from putting more than a paragraph down at a time. I spared you the paragraph-length musings because they didn’t really say anything.

I’d like to say that I thought of many topics to discuss over the last few weeks. But I haven’t been thinking much. The only realization I’ve had has related to scheduling. This is something that I’ve known for a while and Doolies has been trying to convince me of. I’m a creature of habit. It’s not just that I do the same things day after day. I’m happier when my schedule stays the same, when I get the same hours of sleep every night, when I go to the gym the same days each week, when I eat and wake up at the same time, when I write and read at certain times each week. All of these things improve my mood.

I’ve almost returned to my schedule. Writing this weekend has helped me get my focus back. I’m hoping this stays with me and allows me to write more, to share more stories, and to write.