There are about half a dozen unfinished posts in the drafts folder, and I can't finish any of them. I'm not sure I'm enough of an author to really call it writer's block, but it's definitely some sort of block. Dozens of ideas are scribbled in tiny notes at the back of my diary, hieroglyphics decipherable only to skilled Egyptologists and myself, and all are waiting to be converted into normalspeak. For some reason, this week I just can't seem to do it.
There are tragedies, traumas, and tears, there are even some simple smiles. Yet, at the moment, I can't bring any of them to life. So in an effort to break the block, I thought I'd write about it. Some posts take me minutes to compose, some take days, even weeks from when I start them until they see the light of day.
Some deal with unspeakable horrors, with the volume turned down, some are simple stories glammed up for effect, but all have one thing in common. They're all about my brief encounters with people, how these people affect me, how their lives affect me, and once in a while, I hope, how I affect their lives too.
I'm selfish really. I write this blog, first and foremost, for me. It's a record of things I've seen and done, an outlet for frustrations, and an inlet for support from my readers. At the same time, however, I want to let you, the reader, into a world hidden from general view. And to do that, I try to involve you in this world, to make you feel a part of it, hopefully make it seem like you can see the sights, hear the sounds, sense the emotions.
Sometimes I can do it. Sometimes, like this week, the hieroglyphics at the back of the diary remain a mystery, even to me.