After the Cut...

Last night trimmings seem to have been successful! Everyone is doing fine, and perhaps even stronger, as was the plan. So in that respect, I'm pretty satisfied. In others perhaps not.

To those of you who know me will know that this blog is undoubtedly also doubling up as a vehicle through which to drive my writing. I don't mean a place to plug myself or any such bs. No, I mean its a place to write. Regularly. Constantly. (yes, Tavi, daily) Because apparently, to make it as a writer it is essential to write. And I have what is known as a constant case of the blockpox. Ok, maybe nobody knows what I have as the blockpox, but that's kind of how I think of it. I have writers block in the way that I had chicken pox as a young child.

Backstory:

When I was just a wee little girl, I had chicken pox a whopping THREE times. Once was a small outbreak (and, dear parents, please correct me if I have these occurrences out of order, and forgive me, because my recall much before the age of 10 is fuzzy at best), followed by a rather large outbreak just after my birthday. I was miserable! Oatmeal baths are the most disgustingly comfortable practice that I have yet to experience. I felt like a little raisin, posed to be scooped out by some giant spoon and eaten by the god of discomfort and childhood trauma. Granted, that's because I was young, and everything is excruciatingly dramatic when you're young and have the type of imagination that I do. Luckily for me, I healed, and it was a full year before I caught chicken pox again. The last time I believe I was also blessed in that I slept nearly through the ordeal.


Long and short:

I get writers block in bursts. I will be happily typing along, loving the feel and flow of a story and then BAM. Nothing. nada.


And I put it down.



And there it sits.

WAITING.

Probably forlorn and a little put out by the fact that I've abandoned it to come to fruition of its own accord. Which, of course, it doesn't.




SO, I am attempting to keep this constant flow of words streaming from my fingers, hoping that maybe then writing will become constant. And despite the form, I will have compositions to call my own.