Blocked

For weeks now I've been in input-only mode, reading and reading and reading and producing nothing of note. It's not that I haven't tried to write, it's just that whenever I have it's been a short burst of sub-par word connections that I'm not particularly excited about. Partially this has been due to the sheer amount of movement in my day-to-day life and partially it's been a certain...disenchantment, I suppose.

Probably a better way to word that latter bit would be "I've been suffused with bitter dislike of everyone and everything and find it mad hard to write when all I want to do is yell, yo".

There are a number of reasons for this emotional state to be in place. School has been hell, downtime has been nonexistent, people have proven disappointing, and work has been a sudden influx and enforcement of pointless rules meant to establish control and break spirit (takeout menus in the breakroom are now considered 'solicitation' and are therefore forbidden), laced with the constant threat of being fired ("open availability on the weekends is necessary, or the company will have to start reconsidering whether or not you're a good fit for it").

Also, I have to admit that I fall into the unfortunate category of writer for whom writer's block is a self-fulfilling cycle. Writer's block is frustrating and depressing, which makes me frustrated and depressed, which increases the chances of writer's block. It never ceases to amaze me precisely how much my mood depends on whether or not I am producing work I feel to be worthwhile. If the flow is coming, if it's good, then I'm dancing around the house, everyone's genius, and the world is all lollipops and rainbows. If it's not, my ego devours itself and turns monstrous.

My temper's been terribly Irish of late.

Of course, I've been through this phase before and I've snapped out of it, woken up at three o'clock in the morning with the words sliding silver into their proper places. Sunlight through water, is the feeling. That this will happen again is a matter of faith.

Until then, of course, I'll read and read and read and occasionally burst into rage-infused rampages about the current state of feminism or how much I hate Jersey Shore or why certain shades of yellow suck or the depth of my desire to have an army of telepathic, bright blue velociraptors who will hunt down and kill the very many people who I feel deserve it.

And go "hrmph" a lot.

Hrmph.