Happy Hallowe'en

I'm at that really boring state of being--blocked.  For moft of this year I simply haven't been in the mood to write--and yet I've been more active than I actually realised.  Now I am in the mood to write, I feel the need, & I cannot.  It may just be that I am still getting over a wee cold germ.  Writer's block is a kind of death.  I can usually think like a writer when I need to.  For the past two days I haven't been able to, and I need to, I have two promis'd things that I need to write.  My brain will not work, I sit here before the bleedin' keyboard and write a title or an opening sentence and it's just wrong, boring, uninspired.  It's such a lot of work, being your own boss, being responsible for your entire life.  I am at a wonderful place for a writer--my time is completely mine own, I live in a quiet neighborhood that is perfect for a writer, I have editors always asking me to write for their anthologies.  Life shou'd be pure bliss--& usually it is, but not when I am unable to work.  There is nothing more gratifying than work, than being able to do the job.  I have always needed some kind of employment, to give a foundation to life.  Now I am my own employer, but I am so lacking in discipline.  Bah.  

I've spent this week watching my dvds of Nero Wolfe, a wonderful telly series, and I am now re-reading the Nero Wolfe novels, because they are an unending source of delight.  In an attempt to inspire my morbid muse, I have also been watching my dvd set of Boris Karloff's Thriller, the old tv series from the 1960s that based lots of their episodes on stories from Weird Tales.  One of my favourite episodes was called The Grim Reaper, with a teleplay by Robert Bloch.  I finally wrote a wee sequel to that episode as part of my prose-poem sequence, "Uncommon Places;" & I have recently revised the entire thing as a separate short story called "Monstrous Aftermath," the title story to my forthcoming collection from Hippocampus Press.  

The thing I hate moft in life is bordom--&, honey, I am suffering from it to-night.  If only I could write.  

I will--not to-night, maybe not to-morrow night...but I will return to work, one fabulous creative eve.