Work is not going well lately. Every word seems to come out slowly and painfully, like a kidney stone.
I don't know what to blame. Weather seems obvious. It's been really dark here for at least a couple of weeks now (with a short fart of a sunny break one morning). It's rather warm, considering the time of year, but man is it dark! It's depressing. Not in the least inspiring. Dark aura = darkness inside the head? I don't know what to make of it. I've never known the phenomenon others describe as a writer's block, so I don't know what I'm dealing with. I think it has to do with the type of work I'm doing. I am translating my own novel into another language. While at first it seemed every bit as creative (and thus - exciting), it lately became more of a chore, like working a line in a factory (believe - I know something about it, I worked in a factory).
Maybe the reason is altogether different. Maybe it comes from some subconscious fear that it's all worthless schlock. Some big name in literature once said that a part of being a writer is knowing when you're just spewing shit, and that uncertainty only drops a huge shadow on one's creative work. Am I creating crap? Eh, I don't think so. Someone publishes it, someone else is reads, so calling it crap would be insulting those readers who pick up every issue.
Hmm. Maybe it's that my head is already elsewhere. Our annual trip to the eternal spring is about to commence. I find myself watching the weather forecast for the location - it's sunny and warm down there everyday.
Or, maybe I just need a break. Been going like a rat on a wheel for the past two years, except that instead of my legs it's the brain that keeps running in circles. Can't sleep. Can't work. Must rest.