For about two months now, I’ve had a serious case of creative block. I know it is mostly due to stress in life and not wanting to write stuff that I would later regret and shouldn’t be written about online in the first place. I’ve wound myself into a ball of pure stress and anxiety about factors outside of myself and changes happening around me that, when I open up a blank text document to write, cause me to draw a blank.

I could write the details of my mundane life and the transition back to being full-time telecommuting but I won’t. The blank document looms before me tauntingly, telling me that no cares what I had for lunch, what I did with my day, or how many turtles my boyfriend and I have saved from the road and certain doom. I wonder if the stuff I write is boring to read. When I read over the posts they often amuse me but, then again, I have a really weird sense of humor.

On more than one occasion, I know I have admitted I can be a perfectionist. When I am doing something creative (web design, writing, photography, et al) I will always mentally berate myself as to the quality of my work and why I didn’t do better. Mack has found me laying in bed moodily staring off into space while I mull over my short-comings and why I don’t get better after so many hours spent reading and practicing.

I don’t feel like the world is against me, or that I need to write bad poetry to represent the anguish and misunderstandings of my life. I’ll save that for the emo kids out there. You need not worry about said poetry since, as an art form, I don’t understand it and think not many can actually write poetry (let alone produce anything good). I’m not a victim of anything and hate when people play the victim card— “woe is me I deserve all your pity”— since, frankly, I’m sure there are people out there with situations a hundred times worse.

Mack tells me, constantly, to stop stressing and stop letting the outside factors I have no control over drag me down. Last week, on more than one occasion, Mack expressed he was concerned about me. While it is natural for me to worry and stress, I was taking it to a new level. I let shit get to me and stress me out, I know. Couple that with the fact I’ve felt not an ounce of creativity in two months?

Out there, somewhere, my creativity is taking a shot of tequila and laughing about its extended vacation.