This blasted thunderclap headache now holds everything to ransom. It often turns me into a zombie. What’s worse, the well of ideas that served one so well in the past has run dry, it seems.
If the word is always waiting to spill forth from the pen’s tip, I still continue to be. But if everything else is hunky-dory, and the still small voice is gagged, then I don’t think there’s any point in just going through the motions.
Ah, but when you hold the pen, ideas clamour to be born! What’s the secret, Ka?