Writing.

It is something I'm good at. But right now I feel so burned out tired of it. This is the Sunday afternoon of creativity, after the frantic deadline-busting scramble, everything fades to grey and it is too much effort to do anything.
So I lie around and eat crisps and doubt myself and drink and have petty squabbles and submit a few things I wrote already to magazines as a poor substitute for real effort. I will never get published. I wonder what grade I'll get for my creative writing course. Maybe a fail. It is sunny and summer and everyone is light while I lie heavy and filled with doubt, as useless as a lead balloon and just as entertaining. I read. The work of others depresses me.

Writing this blog depresses me. Soon, I know, everything will come back again. This is the dormant time. But waitng. Impatience is one of my many vices, waiting for words is my least favourite thing. I need a summoning ritual. I shall create one, a sigil, a circle, an incantation to call the concepts, the muses, the burning idea which demands to be brought into life. I will create.