It’s like 1:00 A. M. right now. Dark.
I could whine and complain about the tragedies I suffer because of the tragedy my son suffers and how all this suffering doesn’t give me time to write or it saps the energy or will to write…but that would be lazy lying. There is lying that takes energy…flexing my memory muscles, well, it’s just not my thing. But lazy lying? I’ve been guilty before of it, but not this time.
The truth is I’m no liar, I’m just lazy.
I mean, come on! Writers are supposed to be in their element when the tragic happens. Writers are supposed to bleed on the page their troubles and their pain. Some writers get through difficult times by writing, other writers write until they kill themselves with the pain. But either way, or whether you’re smack in the middle of the extremes, writers, well…they WRITE! And if this sometime writer can’t write when things are going poorly, what is he going to do when things are going well? Is there any hope?
So I’m writing this blog entry to explain that though there are reasons I could use to explain my lack of output, none of them are worth typing here. I have no good excuse. And I apologize. To an empty, echoing room filled with no one.