I should be writing. I’ve got a workbook to finish, a workshop to polish, sales copy to craft, and about ten thousand other really important creative endeavors to swim around in at the moment.

But, I’m afraid the invisible rhinoceros that’s poised upon my ovaries is getting in the way. #girlproblems

I’m often caught flabbergasted at just how promptly physical things halt my creative momentum. Whether it’s my dirty feet after a weekend of treacherous, unsuccessful fishing expeditions or a simple trip to the lady doctor, physical circumstances really impact my creativity. They put me into this weird place between zero and one… where I can create, but I create really ugly stuff.

My words lack gusto. My sentences fail to demonstrate my pseudo-mastery of the craft. My love-affair with the written-word seems unappealing and easily distracted.

All because of some sore appendages or bruised lady parts.

It seems so strange to me. Not so strange to others, apparently. I hear often that people fall into funks when they don’t feel healthy. I suppose that makes sense, but it’s never quite been the case for me. My uterus has never, in the past, hampered my creative spirit. Nor have filthy feet impended doom upon my artistic pursuits.

Is this what the creative life does to human beings? Does it turn us into easily befuddled buffoons who can’t write, paint, sculpt, create without ideal conditions?

Wait a minute. I just used the phrase “befuddled buffoons”.

I can’t be stuck. That fine illustration of my aptitude for alliteration and words that pirates would use is a sign.

I musn’t be stuck. It can’t be. I might just be… bored.


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