It's cold and dark and I'm struggling. I have most of the weekend free so want to do some writing, but I have writer's fatigue or block or something and can't get motivated. I'm doing some vague editing of poems that aren't going anywhere. I feel I'm spinning my wheels and the weekend is ticking away. All the poems I've written feel like I'm rehashing the same subjects. Trying new subjects fall leaden. Poetry prompts aren't inspiring any new work. I'd like to submit some poems, but everything that I feel is any good is tied up with magazines that have remained silent. My collection is still sitting with the publisher four years on and no sign of ever being published. My new collection keeps getting handed back to me by other publishers: declined, no comment. I'm so tired after work on Friday that going to my writing group seems like a chore, especially empty-handed. I can't even make the in-person meetings because of family commitments. Trying to follow things on Zoom is difficult. I'm whiney and sick of myself in this mood. I am probably writing more than I think, even if it's a few lines here and there. It's the slog that's wearing me down. And other worries that are not lightened by lifting a pen or fingers touching the keyboard. The dark spiral towards winter. All that is left undone.
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