I feel like I’ve abandoned my own commitment to writing. I’ve lost my enthusiasm about committing my thoughts to the page. I don’t know why that is. I hope the diminished devotion to writing what is on my mind is a temporary thing. I hope I recover my passion to translate what’s on my mind into words on the screen and, ultimately, into words that might appear on the printed page. But for now, I’m forcing even these words to leak, hesitantly and absent even the slightest exhilaration, from the tips of my fingers. My insistence that words spill from my mind onto the screen is causing me angst, not euphoria. Stories that once couldn’t wait to pour from my brain onto the page seem to have dried up, powdery leavings taking their place in my brain. Mornings of late do not excite me. I get up, make coffee, read the news, and curse the universe for its very existence. God damn, this is not who I wanted to be when I turned sixty-four last month. I wanted to be an energetic writer. I wanted to cultivate my creativity with words and with deeds. I wanted to carve my ideas into wood and stake my future on language. Instead, I’m shivering and cursing myself for having failed to accomplish anything of consequence since I retired early from a deeply unsatisfying career. These months long doldrums will surely pass. They must. I have things to accomplish, albeit nothing of substance. At the very least, I have people who depend on me to some extent for their happiness. They require me to lift myself out of this despairing mood.

About John Swinburn

"Love not what you are but what you may become."― Miguel de Cervantes
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