My writing life is close to a blank slate of late. This can be viewed in varying ways. Is it open, available, and receptive or is it simply nothing?

It is both.

After giving myself a hard time about not writing often enough, I’ve concluded this is neither a good or bad situation, it simply is. And, for me, it is nothing new (although at times I long for those intense expressive days).

I’ve been this way since my early teens. I know there are popular philosophies stating that one must write daily, keep the muscle oiled and taut, which makes perfect sense, for someone else. Knowing ourselves is essential to understanding what will and will not work. We are not cookie cutters of one another and I wouldn’t want to be.

At differing points in my life I’ve journaled, wrote three sentences a day, blogged, composed a memoir, sent poems to loved ones. But momentarily, I am blank. Spurts of inspiration occasionally occur and a poem arrives. But that is the extent of it for now.

And I am okay with that. When I have something to say, when it is fiery or painful or loud or insistent, I write. Until then, I’ll explore elsewhere.

Life is short, and we all deserve (even our own) kindness.