I’ve been such a slacker about writing for lo these many months. Thing is, I really miss it. I miss the clickity-clack of my nails on the keyboard, the sound echoing in the room, getting louder and faster when I have a really good point to make. I miss the interaction of so many incredible writers here on OS and the camaraderie we’ve all shared for years. I tip-toe in quietly every so often to leave a comment here and there, but I haven’t really been active for a long time.

As a lifelong reader, I’ve noticed that there are times when I voraciously consume every book, newspaper, blog, magazine, etc. that I can get my hands on. Conversely, there are those periods when my attention flits from place to place, never landing anywhere for more than a few moments. Those are the long, dry spells when I don’t read anything more complicated than a grocery list. Eventually, the written word lures me back and, once again, I become a dedicated reader.

It appears the same scenario holds true for me regarding writing. I’ve been in the middle of one of those long, dry spells for a while now. There is one big difference, though. When I’m too busy, distracted or harried to read, I do not fear that I’ll never read again. I always know the time will come when I’ll settle down enough to bury my nose in books once more. Not so with writing. I worry that the words that once flowed so easily onto the page are forever dammed up inside of me. I wonder if I’ll ever again have anything of import to write. I search for that fire and fret about where it has gone.

Not for a moment do I believe I’m alone in feeling this way. I know that everyone who writes has had their moments of despair – writer’s block – such a trite phrase. I hate it. For those of us who find deep pleasure in stringing the odd phrase together, writer’s block feels like an amputation--an amputation of my imagination, my intelligence, my greatest release. Those golden orbs of thought that previously circled around in my brain, fighting one another for freedom of expression on the printed page now lay in a muddied morass of muck, sluggishly rolling with ennui. It's as if a giant stop sign has positioned itself inside my head. I envision a trailing logjam of words and thoughts, too long held captive by the damnable stop sign. Shining, clever phrases sit immobile now with flat tires and steaming, overheated engines.

Ah, to write again with abandon. Methinks it’s long past time for this dry spell to take a hike.