I have been pondering this all day today and admittedly for the past couple weeks. Ever since I have moved to the "Great Midwest", I feel as though my creative drive or energy that propels me to write something AMAZING, has left me. In Maryland, my home environment, I was able to write the best of my work. Poems that have won me Editor's Choice Awards, poetry readings, and checks to help me pay for my school books. It was the first time I had ever been published and I was proud. I felt that if things kept up (and if I smoked more drugs) I would be cranking out more in no time.
However, since I've been here, the only thing I have been managing to work on is a "How To" guide to becoming a fucking Vegan. Please. Where is the creativity in that? I am sure I could make it creative but any willing editor would probably cut half of that shit out. Besides that, I feel that it isn't "me". I’m thinking that when I start my classes next week, I’ll be able to find that creative drive again and seize it, and refuse to let it go. Others could possibly read this and just stamp this off as a common case of writer’s block. I don’t believe in writer’s block. I believe in getting up off your ass (or in this case sitting on your ass) and getting some writing done. Write while your mind is wandering and I’m sure you’ll be able to fish something out.
Being able to crank out poems every week for classes or writing groups left me feeling high. Typing up my work in an attractive font, printing out copies, stapling and handing them out for others to read. Feeling that rush from reading my work to a silent but interested group, hunched forward, hands cradling heads in amusement and wonder. I felt especially proud when it was a poem that gave me chills such as my "Watercolor" piece. This I wrote on a slow morning at work when I worked at the pet store in a small shopping center. I liked mornings there, I was able to sit and just write whatever came to mind in a small journal I brought with me everyday.
And now I am out of things to say.