The other day I thought about houses. The kind you see on the side of the road, the structures turned black by rain and snow and heat and cold. The kind whose story has been eroded slowly, not unlike the way you can erase words on a page but still faintly see them.
I thought about those houses and was inspired to write.
So why am I writing about wanting to write instead of actually writing?
Because lately I have been depressed. I have been useless. I haven't exercised or read or written a single word. The fire is still there, but she is cold. She is tired, like me, but she is returning and with her I feel inspired. Like I've returned from a long trip, invigorated.
I know many writers and painters and musicians and artists feel the same. It's part of the territory I suppose.
But I wanted you all to know that, no matter how you feel, it gets better and when you think you've run out of ideas and that you've got nothing left to say, sometimes you must go out into the world and be of it, or read, or even sleep. Sometimes the workers need a break.
Remember, like punk musician Jay Reatard once said, "We don't have a limited amount of ideas in us, just a limited amount of time to get them out of us."