tumbleweed in the vast writing spaces of the interwebs

I like to write.  I write a lot.  I write on my iphone, in about five different notebooks at the moment, sometimes on the computer.  I fired up an old outdated laptop earlier to see what writings I could find.  I read through a few.  Some were written in manic fervor.  Some were written from a place of depression.  I've opened up old notebooks and have reread and reread.  I comb through the stuff with a fine tooth comb, hoping for an idea.

I tried writing poetry and it's really, really bad.

I've written many outlines for book ideas. They never go anywhere.

I bought a book on how to write a screenplay.  That's much too daunting for me.

No words seem to appropriate themselves correctly.  Timing and rhythm and flow always seems to elude me.  I take breaks for awhile.  I always come back to it, hoping something new will hit. I really don't know what else I'm supposed to do.

I do feel there are big questions and complexities stifling my ability to succeed in creating something substantial.  I feel blocked by the Whys, the Hows, the Whats and especially the Whos of it all.  If I could somehow discover the truth of it, I might be onto a brighter and more optimistic path.

Until then, I'm stifled.  Sleepless.  Even on the pills.  

Yes, there's imagination, but even imagination seems to elude me these days.  

Six more hours til I have to get ready for work.  I'm in for another brutal day tomorrow. Mr. Sandman bring me a dream.  Preferably not a creepy one.