I didn’t realize how much I want to write about writing until I stopped not writing about anything. Now, I feel like a fountain, gushing words all over the place – and I’m surprised to see how many of the words are about how it feels to be writing words again.

It’s weird.

I’ve spent this year in crisis. Since February, I’ve been heartsick and blocked, trapped, hurting, afraid, and feeling generally shittastic. I’ve struggled with my muse, finding it nearly impossible to get anything written for weeks at a time, and finding that, when I did need to write, the quality of my writing had dramatically decreased. And all I wanted to write about was how much I hurt. How angry I was.

And then, I entered the dry spell.

During surgery – literally, during the actual procedure, when I was on the table and unconscious – I left my body and my heart behind and took up residence in my head. I found my body full of pain and my heart full of grief, so I had nowhere to go that felt safe, comfortable. And now I feel stuck up here, trapped in my head.

Full of logic and reason, empty of emotion and intuition. And all my words disappeared.

If I look back through my fiction, the dry spell becomes obvious. An entry here, one there, and then months with nothing. One about a dream. Then nothing for weeks.

But the simple act of saying “I will write” has opened me up to feeling again; the feelings trickle through, but the words are a flood. The words rush out, tumble over each other, and instead of dreading the blinking cursor, I find myself longing for the empty box so I can fill it with words. My words.

I am filling up with words.