I’m writing to the tune of modern folk music. Not paying attention to the words. Just tapping the keys along to the guitar strings strumming. Compelled to write despite lacking any specific inspiration. I feel a need for a new writing project. A focus for my creative cravings. A direction to point the figurative pen. I wonder if I’ve caught up on all the stories to be told? Do I need to venture from the autobiographical to explore the wider written world? But whose story to tell if not my own?
What becomes of a writer without words? Do I simply disappear? Fade into irrelevance like the dusty paperbacks on my shelf? Or do I transform into something else? Do I shed my nom-de-plume and emerge myself?
I ponder these questions as I’m sitting here with my back to the window and the sun that’s shining through. Words slightly blurry due to age. There is a world out there under the sun’s light. More stories to live?
Be well,
Monty
Monty’s Blahg 
Monty, an examination of your everyday life will surely provide the inspiration. Not all writing has to be a masterpiece or a Picasso! I’m looking forward to your next post on the quotidian…
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Thank you 🙏
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I used the same words: “a writer without words” because I feel like that too sometimes. It takes a lot to get back into writing, but I hope that doing it regularly helps. (After a while of posting different things on my blog, I am trying to get back to fiction and poetry)
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Nice to hear from you! Yes, I think a regular practice is invaluable even if I don’t have much to say initially.
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