…because there’s no point me trying to do this thing if I don’t bang something on there every so often.  Even if it’s a pile of unreadable poo.  Which this will be, so free to stop reading and read some of the poems in my archives, they’re far more interesting.

I don’t understand.  I went through about a month of writing poetry – of really bloody loving it, couldn’t get enough.

And then it stopped.

A couple of reasonably-creative sputterings, and it just… burnt out.  Fizzled.

Maybe when I went to Whitby, my muse liked it so much, she decided to hang around for a bit.  I got to be her for a whole weekend, and it was wonderful.

I will write some more about it, I promise.  I have pictures, and everything.

But the poetry.  The passion I had for it.  It’s still there – somewhere – it just isn’t… turning into anything.  Nothing I wouldn’t be ashamed to share with the world, anyway.

Or perhaps this is how it works for me.  This is what happens with other things, after all.  I pick things up, I drop them, I pick them up again.  Sewing, drawing, crafting, even my day job sometimes.  All things I can do perfectly… adequately, when I put the effort in.  Jack of all trades.  Master of none.

Except writing.

I so hoped that it wouldn’t be that way with writing.  Picking it up, getting bored of it.  It’s what I want to do.  It’s what I’m good at.  If I can be forgiven some unrestrained egotism for a moment, I really think I can do this.  Just not… right now.

So I’ll just write this maundering nonsense instead.  It’ll keep me going until that little madam gets back from her jollies.

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