I think it’s finally happening: I turn the spigot and nothing comes out. The water-table has fallen to a point where the well is dry.
Thankfully, it’s only a metaphor. We can still flush and brush under our roof so far this summer. But my writer’s water pressure is zilch. There’s nothing flowing from the tap this week, and no replenishing rainclouds on the horizon.
And it’s really not so much a dry socket as the daily-reinforced knowledge that there are just not many out there holding out their glasses to be filled with what might otherwise pour out of this particular stream.
And there is the fact that much of what I would serve up won’t fit in a blog reader’s shot-glass capacity to imbibe. But I have no destination in mind to place a 1500 word essay on eco-economics, the politics of fear, the Ecology and Economics of Biodiversity, yadayadayada.
I’ve reached this impasse before, many times, when confronting the “voice and branding” of this nine-year-old web journal. It never does my tiny stream of readership any good to go off-brand and bring up issues that make readers squirm–even if I feel strongly we need to squirm hard and soon.
The energies to do the work of blogging, especially when the topic is substantial rather than just personal ramble, run low in the summer. There’s a definite pattern for this, over the years. And local Virginia cities have set new HIGHs for night time lows, and this would-be writer does not wake feeling perky and driven when it’s already too hot before first light.
So I think I’ll actually shut the computer down until at least tomorrow and recalibrate. I’ll go squash bean beetles, take the little Canon and find a closeup, pick up the binocs and see if I can find that scarlet tanager I hear calling incessantly outside the window, and see how many different smells I can pick up–now, while it’s still as cool as it’s gonna get.
Maybe I’ll be back online after a reboot.