Writer's Block
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Sometimes I feel like I’ve forgotten how to be a poet or how to compose songs. In the silence that seems like writer’s block, those critical internal voices grow deafening. For example, since early October, I’ve been trying to wrestle my thoughts into a sonnet. That otherworldly rattling call of the Sandhill Cranes crossing overhead
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STUCK. Stuck stuck stuck stuck stuck! At best, what I have written recently feels like crap (I use that word intentionally – see below). True, responsibilities have kept me busy. Harry Chapin said it best in Cat’s in the Cradle: “But there were planes to catch, and bills to pay.” True, this afternoon I chose
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For weeks now, there has been silence – the stationary pen that only marks the page of my journal when I nod off in bed. Some call it writer’s block; I call it “the dehydrated soul groping about in desert landscapes.” I feel like one of T. S. Eliot’s hollow men. I am a dried
the deepening ground 