what does a writer do in the absence of words? me... i wait. in some way i have always felt more like a word funnel than the originator of my work. my mind fills with thoughts, words, rhyme and rhythm. my creativity was never a well into which i could lower a bucket and draw up inspiration.more of a spring, bubbling up and filling my mind. i could never ignore the words, my mind would grow full of them ...no choice, but to write.
sometimes the spring just dries up. weeks may pass without even a hint of desire to write. i still pace and smoke, my mind as empty as a slate left out in the rain. i might choose to sit at my computer, i might even open a new page and write a title. sometimes i even manage a sentence, a paragraph ... but these are my words, they require thought and attention. to write them is work. they are not the copious outpourings which bubble from the fountainhead.
i have spent most of my adult life ... not writing. marriage, children, a home to make and maintain. cat fights, dog fights, overflowing geysers and parktown prawns. the small daily dramas, the mostly uneventful contentment of the suburban housewife. more than enough to hold the words at bay.
poets ... so "they" say are usually depressed and miserable souls, howling at the moon. driven to write by our under lying sense of desperation. aye, they might be right at that, the good life, the sweet path, enough prozac to make the world seem reasonable. in my case, calm and contentment will seldom lead to inspiration.
so ... i wait. i wait for the thoughts to flow, i wait for the words to pound away in my mind, demanding to be written. writing is not work, writing is a release. an unstoppable outpouring.