I've been blogging for seven years. I started blogging with the express intention of making my writing a more regular habit. The medium of blogging may not be seen as a serious one for writers, but that doesn't mean I didn't take the writing seriously. For a long time it worked. I wrote something every day for years. Writing became a habit again. Then I started concentrating not just on writing but on trying to improve my writing. The goal became not just putting words out there to but writing well. Then I wanted to say say something with meaning as well as beauty. (I just had a flashback to The Dead Poet's Society with students graphing the importance of a piece of literature with meaning on one axis and beauty on the other.) Getting published again actually became a dream again, and I made some tentative efforts, but something always held me back from seriously pursuing it.
This latest dry spell has convincingly shown me that with my writing, as in much of the rest of my life, I'm back at a beginning. It's not The Beginning. I have too much respect for the where I've been and what I've done. Some of my writing has been quite good. I've got too many wrinkles, scars and memories as well as two pen shaped callouses on my right index and middle fingers to pretend that I'm starting as fresh as the first dewy morning of a newly created world. I feel more like the first silver crescent of a new moon. The darkness is a tangible presence, but I can ride with the natural rhythms of ceaseless change and let my words come out again.
I'll be looking for writing prompts, and if anybody has suggestions, I'll welcome them. I just need more than my own private journal now for the beat of writing to return.