I feel foolish confessing my writing has fallen by the wayside. Normally writing is my savior. Its where I go to hide from the world. In the past year it feels as if I lost something. That drive inside me that makes it so I HAVE TO write has faded, vanished, slammed into park and refuses to move. I can't seem to jump start anything to do with writing.
This scares me a bit.
I've been painting a lot and have started to learn piano, but I know these are substitutes for that thing inside me that wants to be writing.
As silly as it may seem I blame this on a loss of a pet. Elvis, my parrot of 11 years died suddenly. He was jumped on by one of the dogs I fostered and died in my hands. He nipped my finger once and was gone. I cried for days. I'm still crying inside and the smallest things can set me off. Its been over 6 months and still my heart weeps. I blame myself. I was his protector and I failed. His death is all my fault. I don't blame the dog. Something fell beside him and he pounced. My daughter and I were standing right there and still couldn't stop it. I don't even think the dog knew what it was when he jumped on it. Probably thought it was a toy. Dogs move instinctively. I was the failure. Elvie's death is mine. I should have kept him safe.
Silly, I know but since then I can't write. I don't know what I'm waiting for, or why I've been so stuck over this. He's not the first pet I lost and I'm sure won't be the last. But parrots are special. They are almost like little people. He talked and would say the absolutely right thing at the right time. He ate when we ate, slept when we slept and was part of the family. I miss him terribly.
They say grief has five stages; Denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. I guess I'm in depression since there is no guilt. Or maybe there should be guilt. Or is that in bargaining? Am I trying to bargain my way out of guilt? Justify that I didn't keep him safe?
I know accidents happen and we can't stop the world, but still my heart broke when Elvis left me.
Weirdly, about two weeks before he died I had this overwhelming feeling that he was going to be gone soon. Like I looked at him once and knew he would leave me soon. The thought so horrified me that I shook it off immediately.
If I ever have pychic powers I don't want to know things like that but sometimes...
Why don't I ever get the lottery numbers? Something useful.
So now I'm plodding through an old story, trying to get it ready for Kindle but my heart's just not in it.
Tell me how to get "it" back. That thing inside that makes you write. I think it's still there. It just won't come out and play.