The Muse has fled.

I've been struggling with this loss. I'm seeing how I can write umpteen and eleventy million posts on my blog but put a word into the plays (yes, there are two of them now) or the books (three) or the collection of short stories (2) and I sit here stumped, baffled and boggled.

I plead with Scriobhnarin, my writing muse, for one whit of enlightenment and realize that the last time I wrote was at the conference when I ploughed out 1500 words at one sitting. Maybe Scriobhnarin is exhausted, she is one age with me after all.

Be patient, they tell me, all will be well.

A couple of weeks now, I answer. And not a sparkle of concern do I show for the characters that lie languishing, wordless, silent, mute, crawling away from me defiantly.

It would be funny if it was happening to anyone else, right?

But it is happening to me.

So I am shutting down for the day, it is a denim day here at the edge of the Atlantic and I have chores to do in town. But I will take the camera and see what presents itself to the lens and maybe something will bounce off my brain and on to the page.