In an attempt to jumpstart my writing mood –which has stalled at the edge of frowny and fatalistic- I am shoving out another travel blog post today.
As I’ve belabored the point before, my travel blog is my blankie. Warm, soft and easy to write, I tuck my face into its familiar fluff and just breathe for an hour or two.
I have two issues with this: 1.) Who the crap has a writing blankie? Seriously. And 2.) Why am I constantly shying away from the final edits of The Hushing Days?
Unfortunately, I know the two answers: 1.) Stupid, little me has a writing blankie, that’s who. And 2.) Fear, mixed with a genetic helping of procrastination.
Of course, this little exercise in self-examination means nothing, helps no one and is generally a waste of literary space…
*pauses, runs that last sentence through brain a couple hundred times and winces*
Well, crap. I hate when self-portraiture sneaks up and bites you on the ass.