Quiet

I occasionally go through periods where I don't feel like writing. Usually these times come when I'm feeling quiet; when I have little to say. And when I have little to say it's because I'm reading a lot. I get so caught up in the beauty of an author's words, the way a sentence is pieced together so perfectly, how the meaning is conveyed to me as clear and concise, that my own words start to feel paltry and insignificant. I'll open up a piece I'm working on, fully intending to write, only to find that all of my words are silent. They splash themselves across the monitor and look limp and lifeless. Any storytelling becomes lost in a mumble and I start hitting the delete key. I hate these periods when my brain feels mute; I wonder, am I stressed? Sick? Tired? How can a writer have no words. How can a writer stop thinking or feeling or expressing. I can only hope that these quiet times are R&R for my inner creativity -- wherever that comes from, inside I suppose. And it does seem that after these lapses in quality production, comes clarity. I'll begin to pull from my word tree with ease, as though all the fruit were near the bottom and perfectly ripened. I've heard it said that good writers write every day. I'm still working towards that goal -- but I'm not sure if I should fight the quiet times too hard. Perhaps it's some essential part of my thought process. My brain has to digest all those thoughts and feelings to make them communicable. Here's hoping I don't just suck and am actually boring and dull and the moments of excited writing are the exception rather than the norm. But how could that be? I'm nearing my 300th post. I'm writing better and more than I have before. I'm reading more than I ever have. I listen more. Yes, that's it; the quiet times are when I'm listening.