Blocked

Blocked, that's what I am. Blocked as in writer's block. The words that used to flow through me onto the page, the screen, have slowed to a trickle. No longer does the perfect sentence percolate up to the surface of my consciousness as I drive down the highway. No poems, however illogical, come to me in dreams. The days and nights of losing myself in the rhythm of language, when time and space collapse until only the words on the screen and my hands on the keyboard exist-- these are no more.

As one who came to the craft through journalism, I was trained to produce, on deadline, no matter what. Writer's block was never an option. Now, I teach writing, but no longer write, illustrating that horrible cliché that those who can't, teach. Although I have had my work published for several decades, I barely even journal. Of course, as an English teacher, I do still write: emails, lists, and, every couple of months, a new syllabus or three, not to mention corrections and comments on several dozen student papers each week.

I could blame the block on my day job, on my commute, on my dog, on my resolution to get in shape, all of which take time. Yet I have hours to spend watching "Angel" and "True Blood" on DVD or reading fashion magazines and browsing such shopping sites as Pixie Market. I even have material to work on: three different book projects, all on serious topics, all of which strike me as far too depressing. If I were to pick up any one of these again, the angst would drain me more than teaching four hours straight.

Perhaps the problem is that I am basically happy with my life by the sea. I have largely laid to rest the torments of the past and have little interest in digging them up again. Does one have to be tortured to create?

Actually, I'm a little embarrassed that what captures my attention now are colors and shapes: the sculptural folds of a garment, the play of light on the ocean outside my windows, the fun of pulling together a costume, the challenge of creating an apartment home that feels cozy rather than cramped. But compared to war, recession, health care reform, the fiscal nightmare in
Sacramento-- not to mention global warming-- my fascinations seem too, well, trivial. Frivolous.

If I could, I would write a book that was light and playful, warm and charming, one that would make a reader smile or even laugh, although I have no idea what the topic would be. The year I learned to party? But while I wait for inspiration, I'll just keep blogging