There is a bottomless well of excuses for not writing that I have been drawing from lately. Ok, ok, it’s been six months since I’ve written anything and I’m working through my 25th bucket of Excuses from the Well. Some highlights from this bucket include:
- There is so much going on that I don’t even know where to start writing.
- I work nights which turns me into a zombie for most of the time spent away from work. Zombies don’t keep blogs.
- My depression and anxiety have recently kicked into overdrive and I can’t focus on anything long enough to organize my thoughts into coherent paragraphs.
- No one wants to read what I have to say right now.
- There’s nowhere in my house to sit and write that doesn’t smell like cat urine
Sure, they are fairly workable excuses. The cat that lives here does pee on everything I own as though he thinks I will forget he’s there at some point. And yes, my depression and anxiety are in overdrive right now, producing some dark and painful consequences, least of which are my multiple daily coherence failures. You’d think it would take fewer than 25 trips to the Excuse Well for an intelligent person with fledgling writing talent to realize that perhaps writing through some of the darkness might help her find the fabled light at the end of the tunnel. Maybe the 25th time is a charm?
But I am here now. I am breaking the silence and putting my latent writing muscles back to work. Things might get heavy around here for a while, but never without the appropriate amount of sarcasm and absurdity. One should never go through life without them.