Guess it won't be a surprise when I say I don't think I have it in me anymore. Writing, I mean.

A few years ago I could have written those 21 words far more eloquently, and even merged both sentences into a single multi-clause phrase pleasing both to write and read. As an editor, I adored the writers who had that touch—in part because each and every word felt right, but also because it meant less proofreading and paring down for me. Working for the Charlatan, Carleton University's student paper, I had one regular contributor (Emma) whose submissions were always like that, poetry even if it was supposed to be prose. Each sentence felt like a gently cascading river that I could get lost in.

And hell, I know for a fact I could put together sentences like those once upon a time. This blog is a testament to that creative period of my life I find myself grasping at like so many straws. Now I'm fumbling through these few paragraphs, wondering if each word could be replaced with a better one, not caring, and moving on to the next one. I suppose this is what many practitioners of writing—also known just as "writers"—call a first draft. Never much was one for drafts. I just used to write each sentence over and over again in sequence until it sounded right.

I guess this is just a muscle I've allowed to go soft and flabby, and consequently I cringe whenever I try to put something out longer than 140 characters. Tweeting has made me an efficient writer—I can cut out adverbs far more effectively than I've tried to cut junk food out of my diet—

...I suppose that sentence had an ending but I can't find one. Give me your parentheticals, your asides and musings; my style was always suited best for tangents. But something with a thesis that follows through on all of its points? Forget it.

This is something I honestly don't have the energy for anymore and it's scaring me. I had the spark once, but it's gone, and every time I try to recapture it I get far enough just to peek over the edge before recoiling in a kind of mortal terror reserved for Poe's melancholy protagonists.

Something has taken up residency in my mind, something blocking out what used to be my go-to means of therapy, and I'm left to talk around it and make occasional half-hearted steps toward identifying it and flushing It out so I can get back to contributing to the discourse rather than just sitting on it and sucking it up like a fatted leech.

All input, no output.

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