Another Futile Attempt...

Here it is, another Saturday night I've tried to spend writing and ended up instead ... downloading music and letting my mind drift.

I can't figure it out. Fellow writer friend N told me in so many words that writers write, and if I'm not writing, it's because I don't want to. Fellow writer friend C told me that that was too harsh, that I had a lot of stuff going on the last few months, and that when things started to even out again, I'd be writing again. I tend to think they're both right.

What's strange is that I can't bring myself to look at my writing, much less actually begin doing it again. I can't seem to confront it. The longer this goes on, the more of a hurdle it is becoming.

What does all this mean? I can't figure it out.

And I still can't figure out what to do with my time when I'm not writing. I just honestly don't know what to do with myself. I'm not the kind of person that needs to be in constant company - I do prefer to be by myself most of the time. Writing. Or thinking about it and putting it together in my head.

I feel ...weird. For six months now I've felt weird. Off. Out of sorts. I'm sick of looking for things that will fill that void where there used to be a creative drive...nothing can replace it. Until it's back I guess I'll just continue feeling odd and inept and somewhat worthless. I would just really like to know where I went and when will I be back. That's all.