Discontent

I'm restless, twitchy, dissatisfied. My attention span is shot, and blue skies aren't doing it for me. Any second now, someone is going to come along and be just the wee-est bit presumptuously clueless, and I'm going to lay them out on the ground with scars that will last. I won't even enjoy it.

What's the problem?

Nothing in particular. Existential ennui.

I'm not writing.

That's the real problem. My time has been so broken up lately that I've been filling in with instant-gratification writing substitutes: revisions, submissions, outlining, research, blogging, correspondence. But I haven't sat down and let my fingers really dance to the music in my head in a couple of months. I haven't challenged myself the way that only writing challenges me. I haven't proven to myself that music still exists in the world. I haven't added anything to that music.

It's time to fix that. Now, before someone, maybe even me, ends up with new scars.

"Dad? Have you sent that letter to Mom yet?"

(to be continued)