I’m staring at a blank screen, and I can’t find any words to fill it. But this is the most exciting part, nevertheless. It means that the page has turned – a chapter in the story was finished, with nothing more to say, and now it’s time for something new.
My urge to date has disappeared for now; my sex drive is on simmer. I’ve been clearing my closets of hundreds of bottles of nail polish with my manicure-less hands, finally selecting and buying chairs for my kitchen table, and timidly tackling the daunting task of going through 20 years of boxed-up memories and junk that currently occupies one entire stall of my garage.
My emotions seem stable on the surface, but really, I’m just not feeling anything at all. Numb. Nothing to say. Boring. Instead of feeling my own story, I get lost in movies on the weekends and cry through the stories of made-up characters.
I’ve never felt the appropriateness of my blog name quite so much as I do at this moment. I am Unwritten. Pen in hand… what happens in this chapter?