It’s been a damn long while since I’ve felt inspired to write.  I have my excuses, some more valid than others, but the basic point is that I just haven’t been feeling it lately.  If you think of writing as a kind of performance, I guess I broke my guitar strings a few gigs back and never bothered to replace them.  Now it feels like I have nothing to sing about—or, if I have something to sing, I’m too timid or too tired to do it.

I’m not burned out or anything. I’m not disenchanted with the idea of writing.  I just can’t seem to do it lately.  I sit down at the computer and nothing happens.  Blank screen.  Blinking cursor.  I know the will to write is in me somewhere, but it’s not just tied up—it’s chained to the wall.

One big reason for all this failure is that my mind is elsewhere. I’m the kind of person that spends more time thinking about other people than of myself, perhaps to the detriment of my own thought clarity.  Who knows why I’m closed off to myself—the reasons for it aren’t really relevant. The point is that lately, my mind has no room for writing. You know how in Star Wars Luke could only use his force powers when his mind was clear?  It’s like that.  Not that I have special powers or anything.

The other big reason is a lack of motivating factors. Motivation for writing could come from anywhere.  Earlier in the year, I felt motivated to Phreelance because I could visibly see an improvement in my writing capability.  The constant writing was training me to write despite moments like this slump, and I was psyched.  The positive reinforcement was keeping me going.

Recognition can motivate just as well.  Phreelance readers: I write for you guys, too.  But seriously, if you don’t comment worth a damn, I’m going to lose some motivation to keep going. Money—money is always a good one, but we sure aren’t paid for Phreelancing.

A lot of times, Dash motivates me into the writing zone.  It doesn’t matter how he does it.  Encouragement, chastisement—it all works because I live to please.  Sometimes all it takes is a sarcastic “Really?” to stop me whining about the writing task.  But damn if lately I just don’t give one.

Witty people might be excited by the meta-whatever of this piece.  You’re writing about being unable to write! How cute! Or they might be pissed off. You’re cheating! This doesn’t count as writing! I’ll spare these people the commenting time: I’m aware of both of these facts, and they don’t help me.  These days, I just can’t write.  I can’t do it.  I can’t.  Maybe admitting this fact with such force will unclog the scum-filled drain.  Who knows.