Sleeping Muse

I'm having a very hard time finding motivation. I'm having a very easy time finding resistance. I'm repulsed almost by the act of writing. Looking forward to a month of hanging Christmas decorations, without a project to return to at the end of the day, or an idea to consume the hours during it, is not appealing at all.

Since, of late, the things I've been successful in writing have all been for production, I can only imagine that my reluctance still rests in my desire for interaction. Even now, two years later, it appears that Darwin's Kids has spoiled me. Before it, I had no problem losing myself in a project, even with only one interested party, even if that party was only me. Now, without feedback, without people waiting for the next draft, without dreaming about and debating over the production, I can't get through the surface.

My thoughts drift. My will is weak.

I've never felt in such a haze; I don't feel engaged. My old dependable obsession has left me. Where is the madness? Have I grown sane, and lost my work ethic as a result? Is it simply a phase, or has rejection and isolation beaten me down? I can't even focus on this entry, except to think that it is a dull list of complaints. The critical devil on my shoulder, always nearly mute, now out-screams the obsessive muse. She seems to be asleep.

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