I’ve (hopefully only temporarily) lost my writing mojo as of late. Living a life where I’ve been mostly staying at home (you know…to “stay safe” what does that even mean) isn’t very…inspiring. My creative juices are flowing as slowly as sap in January. Go figure…

It’s been a struggle for sure. Yes, I’m happy I’m alive (I guess), not terribly happy about being called back to a job I’ll have who knows how much longer, not happy that it’s become so complicated to see friends and family, can’t go out for trivia games without heavy risk, can’t find disinfectant wipes at stores, can’t visit a public pool without making a reservation, can’t go anywhere without bringing a mask (and risk having people glare at you for wearing one).

I know I don’t have things that bad…yet. I’m trying my absolute hardest to make the most of a less than ideal situation (as I’m sure we all are). I don’t want to sound whiny.

I look back at some of the past blogs I’ve written and it’s almost as though they were written by a completely different person. And that’s because… they were.

I know I’ve done my best to play rodeo clown for myself and distract myself from everything that is utterly terrible right now. Searching endlessly for anything resembling something even close to a light at the end of this dark, bleak tunnel. Seeking comfort in wholesome – and unwholesome ways. Trying to play a game that likely can’t be won by me or anyone else (but the virus).

No, I’m not OK…but I’m trying so very hard! And I won’t stop. But I can no longer ignore the emotional elephant in my room.

If you bothered to read this, thanks. I needed to say it…