I wonder why some writers can walk through the alphabet collecting everything they need while I weary it with my inadequate pen. Feeling incompetent is humbling. I am surrounded by words yet I can't produce a sentence.
Every writer has dry spells, but lately I seem to be choking on dust. Yes, I have written some poetry, but not on the level I would like. I feel like a wallflower
watching art refusing to ask me to dance. Why is it insomnia loves to throw pity parties?