Everyone thinks that working from home, being isolated, will be a boon for the writer that is me.
I’ve been isolated for nearly four weeks – I’m not complaining, I understand the rationale.
Friends have said that production should surely proliferate.
Inside my imagination ideas, themes, and all points between continue to flow.
None are written.
I don’t know why this is.
I should be a ‘happy camper’ typing away.
But I’m not.
As a state of affairs go this one is perplexing.
Is it Covid-19, or is it me?
Do I have, if not writers block, then a remarkably close relative?
Am I suddenly averse to scribbling?
Have I developed a Nihilist view of my writing, is it is all pointless and without purpose?
Questions, so many questions – so few answers.
This is an empty auditorium so I can be self-indulgent.
Is it the rejections?
Am I worried by the sooth saying of Gretta?
Am I reinforcing failure – or stubbornly holding out for the inevitable break?
I don’t know the answer, I just know that I’m not writing, and knowing that is somewhat upsetting.