It's late...

... and I have to be up in less than five hours and I can't sleep and my mind is full. So I came to write. Yet this busting mind seems incapable of spilling any meaningful content onto the page. What's up with that? asks the ever-present inner editor. Any words that do squirm out look like those baby rats I referenced a few months ago, so there appears to have been little progress. Puling they are. So I stop again, but I know this is not the way. The way is to punch through it and keep writing until it does develop some meaning (and maybe grow whiskers and a long tail). But not at 12:40 a.m when I have a 7:00 a.m. meeting tomorrow. Today. Oh my, I do find good excuses not to write, don't I?

But I am to attend my writing workshop next weekend. Miracles will happen. The floodgates will be flung open and a torrent of prose and poetry will gush from my hitherto locked loins. Or something like that.

I'm off to hit the hay again, in the hope that the birthing of the baby rats was enough to quiet the mind.