Writing, like poetry, sometimes comes to me naturally: a breath of inspiration aligns my writing chromosomes in the Shakespearean turn and you'd think, 'there goes a prolific writer'. I have heard a good number of really smart people say that to me, and they meant that as a compliment. Ah, don't be fooled! I can't stop what they think of me, but I think I know enough of me to understand what I'm not and a writer I am so not (pardon my French).
There are other times that the ink of inspiration dries up and I am left a wondering if someone else wrote those moving scripts in my name. Writing, at such time as these, becomes a grueling ordeal, a task mocking me. I sit at the keyboard and type and then delete...I type some more and delete yet some more. Nothing seems to make sense. What makes sense then is the disconnect between my fried brain and my aching fingers. Maybe I should take Mr B's counsel and go watch a movie and I mean right now because my project, due on Friday, is ...well, you know what I'm talking about.