I used to be obsessive, compulsive about posting here. Ideas would pop into my head, and I would get to it, write and post.

Now? It’s safe to say that I’m living through some form of writer’s block. The ideas pop into my head but I don’t get right to it. I mull them over in time for self-doubt to creep in. I think, who cares? Why would anyone care what I have to say? I don’t care what I have to say.

The writer’s block has been invading everything in my life, every step I make. It’s a phase I’m going through, I’m convinced. Actually, I’m not worried that this block, this inertia, this fear, the fog of self-doubt will remain forever. It’s something I have to look at, understand, overcome, sometimes on a minute-by-minute basis.

Last night, the fog blanketed me rather heavily. I wanted to curl up and do nothing, read a book, pull the covers over my head and go to sleep. I said, no, you have a book shelf to clear up: papers to put into files or toss; books to decide whether to keep or give away.

I cleaned my book shelf and felt better.

I write this about the fog of last night. I re-read it, and I think, it sounds like depression. No, I’m convinced, it’s not depression. It’s something else. For one thing, I don’t deep down feel hopeless.

I believe I am in a good place. Life is good in many ways. There are just things about it right now that all feel new. I’m trying to find my way in a new world.