No way has it been nine days since I've posted. Those dates are wrong. Typepad is lying to you. Which is something I would never do. Also, butterflies taste like candy. No kidding. If you don't believe me, I guess you can lick one and find out for yourself, scientist.
It's Limbo Week here at Chez Finslippy, the week between the ending of school and the beginning of gloriously exhausting summer camp. Right now Henry has two friends over; they're in the next room, loudly re-enacting various scenes from Kung Fu Panda. Until they start kung fu-ing each other and blood spatters the walls, I'll just stay in here, quietly typing, hoping they don't realize it's lunch time and Food-Giving Woman has not yet supplied them with sustenance.
So I'm struggling with a creative block right now, or not so much a block as the feeling that the creative part of me has shriveled up. There's nothing blocking it, it's just a raisin. How do you go to a raisin for ideas? See, even my metaphors aren't working.
I find one good way of getting past these periods is to talk about them, so here I am, revealing my block to the world. I'm not too surprised, frankly. I got out of my daily writing routine when the miscarriage happened and my daily routine became sleeping and crying. It sounds about right that that part of me has atrophied a bit. And I know that these periods eventually end and are replaced by increased brilliance. (Or maybe that's only true for me.) Unfortunately my work demands more than me patiently waiting for my mojo to return. So I ask you, readers: how do you kickstart your creative energy? Just don't tell me to buy a Sark book, because Scott would never let me live it down.