I am in a slump. A writing slump. Some days, the witty details fly fast and furious through my head, like dodgeballs at a sniveling tattletale when the P.E. teacher has a substitute. These are not those days.
This affliction is not to be confused with a case of writer's block. The ideas are still there. But they languish listlessly in my drafts. Bloodless. Bland. They are the oatmeal bath, the warm milk, the saltless cracker, the boiled chicken, the plain noodle, the beige crayon, the white cotton panties, the brown wingtip oxford, the yellow #2 pencil, the elevator music of blog posts.
While waiting for my mojo to return, to get my groove back, to get in the swim of things again, I am content to loll sun-drunk on my air mattress of patience in an ocean of lukewarm creativity. I anticipate that brisk, North Atlantic sea-breeze of inspiration which will generate a current of creativity to carry me out of the end-of-summer doldrums.
My readers, however, are marooned on Bore Island without even a wish for one item to bring with them.