Not a post, this Sunday. An exorcism.

Woke this morning with an inexplicable case of the Writerly Icks. Don’t know where it came from—especially after yesterday’s productive and exciting day at the notebook.

Woke rested but aimless; without voice or idea or confidence on a beautiful chilly day. The extra hour of clock-back sleep has done nothing to help. The chattering pair of eagles just behind the house haven’t helped, either. Nor the morning three-miler at Sunday’s usual contemplative pace.

Did this brain-funk come from listening to a passage in bed last night, a passage that didn’t seem as rich as it did only a few weeks ago (and which, at second listen, sounded just fine this morning)? Did it come as part of the natural ups and downs of life? Or from the limbo-land between books? I wish I knew.

My thoughts are like sour milk in the mouth. Confusion and despair are rattling around in my skull like a marble in a tin can. This morning, I am not a writer. I am not anything. Everything I will ever try to do will be sloppy and obvious. I will spend a life writing for myself only. Because I have no talent. None.

This isn’t a plea for affirmation. Or an appeal for someone to reassure me. I’m not looking to be talked off the ledge. This feeling is just what it is. Unfortunate, but, for the moment, very present.

I know better than to try to force the temporary darkness out of my head. I know it will dissipate on its own—perhaps even in minutes—and I’ll get back to doing what I love to do. What I must do. Once the Icks go away.