Blocked.

I want to write something to the blog, but every attempt seems to be laboured and unsatisfactory at the moment. That’s a problem for me because writing has been the main conduit to my tenuous connection with life for quite a long time.

Maybe I’ve written too much. If you add the blatherings on the blog to the more carefully crafted fiction, the result is the equivalent of around ten large novels. Maybe the conduit is becoming as constricted as my arteries appear to be and I’m suffering from literary atherosclerosis.

Today was a dull day. I met no dogs with furry ears or women with nice names. I received no mail – paper or electronic – worth reading. I felt scared to get out of bed this morning as I do every morning. Night is my time; mornings are scary. The signs of autumn are showing early in the Shire. The ambient temperature was a little low for early September.

Tomorrow might be better.