I am the kind of person who doesn’t make a lot of excuses when it comes to writer’s block. I have the notion that it’s a largely invented condition, a state brought about by any one or more of the following: feelings of overwhelmedness, stubbornness in insisting one can only work on one writing project at a time, over-editing in the draft phase, or a lack of confidence in one’s words (which is the hardest of these to rebound from).
Lately, or rather just for the past few days, my writing has suffered from none of these. It’s fallen victim to a case of bluh. While in bluh, it’s hard to do any of the following: do chores, read a book, play a video game, garden, get out of bed, or even eat. It is not a state I recommend highly. In my experience, bluh is the precursor to a depressive expanse lasting I don’t know how long. Yes, there are management tricks. Yes, they require effort to employ. The energy to employ them is in short supply.
So where does that leave my writing? Do I doggedly slog through? Not yesterday or the day before, I didn’t. Maybe today holds promise, right? More like: go see someone about this. It’s a pattern. I’ve lived with it for a while. Let the moving settle out, and ask for a bit of help. Maybe I’ll be surprised.