A sweltering heat arises. The muffled hum of window-unit air conditioners from other classrooms penetrates the relative silence of the one in which I currently sit. Lights and AC off: I have need of neither, yet.
The intricacies of this profound writer’s block continue to challenge me. True, the competing concerns of work and volunteering vied for my attention. Nevertheless, constant writing left me feeling as though a resevoir was drying out. A need for a conscious rest evolved into a pattern of avoidance. Soon, even the desire to write again felt foreign, as though the yearning of someone else.
I, who once prided myself on not experiencing any serious writer’s block, continue succumbing to this latest variety. I can’t say I’ve overcome it, either. But a renewed urge to write arises once more. What comes of it, I cannot say. For now, however, I will respond to it, as consistently as I can.
a red-breasted robin
scampers through grass