I'm used to periods of writer's block where every time I sit down to write it all seems so pointless. Days when even mild depression gives way to despair.
Lately though it's got even worse, and now I'm having trouble forcing myself to read things I know I'll enjoy. I don't know why this is happening. Even blogs I that I normally read with pleasure, my hand hovers over the mouse, unable to click through to a site that I know will cheer me up, if only momentarily. This especially applies to sites where I know I will meet an online friend, someone who has been kind to me in the past. Maybe I don't want to be reminded of the good times I've enjoyed in the past, the emotions that are unavailable to me right now.
Or maybe it's just because their verbal fecundity reminds me so forcibly of my own tongue-tied desuetude.
I guess the only answer is to start writing again. Throw myself a lifeline. Write the next chapter of Mummy's Boy and become human again.
Yes, that is the only answer. But then I've know that for weeks.