Meh

I find myself in a dry patch. Nothing inspires me to write. It is such a fragile pursuit really and no amount of persuading myself that there is something there lurking below – untapped, undrawn – makes a difference. Instead I go to past moments for therapy, recaptured in words to remind myself of another time. I am grateful that I do not have to do this for a living. Later I return to the browns everywhere and the gun grey clouds and the fact that it has finally stopped raining in the hope that I can squeeze some light out of nothing. Yet it comes to me: I have arrived at this place of meh – like a scarecrow for writers.

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© 2023 Rick Frame