All blocked up and no, its not what you’re thinking.

It had to happen sometime. I find myself writing less fun stuff and more for the cheques. I rush to churn out the required word limits, and get all the quotes in and structure stories appropriately. I chalk my day down to how many features I have been able to churn out per day, and ergo, how much income have I generated for myself in the course of that particular working day.
Only to find myself now, not able to write for fun, as I used to be able to do. The words don’t flow. The thoughts are there, but I feel disinclined to put them down. Laziness? You would think. Nope. I’m putting it down to a serious writer’s block. For a writer this can be crippling. And hey look, I’m not even trying to joke about this, because my heart is shattering into a billion pieces even thinking about it. Because, if I don’t write, then what am I? I have built up my entire sense of identity through my writing work, and not the writing for an income work but the writing for fun stuff that I do, which has you good folks come here to read me. And today, I literally have nothing to say. And yes, it has taken me 200 plus words to say that, so I guess, I’m not really losing my touch.
I’d also put it down to a reading overload. I’ve been doing some really heavy duty reading recently. Too much serious stuff. It takes its toll. I get serious. I start hearing violins in the background to my every thought. I start moping in classic poses, draping myself over pieces of furniture in carefully constructed angst. I need to run to gods like Dave Barry and Douglas Adams and PG Wodehouse and Jerome K Jerome. I need to impose a moratorium on myself for the bread and butter writing. I also need to take one of them chill pills that everyone keeps talking about.
Ergo, I have cracked the whip on self in most un-chill pill manner and told self that I need to post. Today. No matter what. Even if I post total tripe (due apologies). I need to know that off days are okay, but discipline in posting needs to continue. And I need to be more forgiving of myself. It is okay if I’m having an off phase, isn’t it? I can allow myself some down days. I need to do more inspirational things to bring back the joy in writing again. Let me just wander off in pensive thought to think up what it is I could do to make myself want to write again.
Meanwhile I have two incomplete manuscripts staring me in my face, and no inclination to touch them. Maybe I really need that cottage in the woods (with uninterrupted power supply and a computer and broadband connection and takeaway on call, or efficient cook housed on the premises, I am nothing if not practical) to run away to for a few months and gets these written out. Ah well, a girl can dream can’t she?