The Mother of All Ruts

You know what I'm talking about. The tall grass. The weeds. The deep dark. Stuck in the mud. That dog don't hunt. (That last one doesn't work, but I've always wanted to use that Southern expression. Thanks Tonia.)

I'm in a big time rut. It's been a while since I've written. Freelance stuff, sure. Some on the blog. OK. Correspondence. Checks. Shit. Money ain't a thing. (I'm a little embarrassed about that one. And money's very much a thing when you're unemployed.)

But my own writing has been slow and from a long, long time ago. Not long, long. But long enough that I'm going ape-shit stir crazy. I've had a few short ruts before. But nothing serious. I don't get writers block. But I think the elements are at play here. Shit is f-ing with me.

But that all aside, I'm mired. And when I'm not writing I'm edgy. Cranky. Cagey. Jittery. No jauntiness over here. Sometimes you've just got to let those evil monkeys out And mine are all caged up and they haven't tasted fear in quite a while

So what does one do? I don't run into this problem too often. And I find the usual advice makes me want to join the monkeys and throw shit. I tend to write with a game plan. Even if it's just a sketchy one, etched pretty faintly somewhere in my own noggin. But the usual suspects of advice are:

1. Get a piece of paper and free form brainstorm!

2. Lock yourself in a room and write for an hour. About anything.

3. Take a line from a magazine, book, or newspaper and use it as a first sentence for a brand new story.

4. Read the newspaper and look for stories.

5. Write a dream.

I can't even write any more of these. Maybe one of these works for people. But for me -- throwing shit. I kind of hoped writing about it would help. But... nothing.

I'm curious what people do. I'd ask some people, but I'm sure some of them would provide annoying responses. I'm sure P would recommend drinking. Brooks would recommend watching movies until inspiration hits, but I don't have time for that. And I saw Kick Ass. No thank you. I'm pretty sure Michael would say he just writes anyway. Bastard.

I have to figure this out. One has to dig their way out. Or the monkeys will bring about a coup d'état the likes of which haven't been seen since the music drought of 2001.

ps. Mood music:

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