Then, something changed. I gave up trying to write while dealing with whatever else was on my mind. I slipped to writing less than once a month, then once every six or seven months. Now, I've let a year pass without a single journal entry.
Why? Because I hate where I live. I hate everything about it. You'd think I could write about that. I'm able to write online, or in e-mails, but to actually construct a decent reflection is beyond me right now. Plus, the writing is downstairs and I hate our basement.
I should be ten times more productive than I have been in the last decade. Things have fallen apart, and I know it.
I need some sort of encouragement. Not sure what that would be. Writers, like any composers, need an audience. I even miss the bad poetry of local cafes.
Writing might be solitary, but it is seldom completely for the self. It needs an audience.