Interesting that when my life is calm, when I have no majorly pressing decisions, when my health is for the most part in place ... my need to write is diminished. I have also notice that since Gregory passed, my need to pour out poetry is almost gone.
At first, I lamented the disappearance of both and felt I should call out an All Points Bulletin to force myself to find where both had gone to. Then I realized that it is not that they have disappeared, the need behind them has disappeared. Make sense?
Work on "GREGORY: An Alzheimer's Love Story Musical," continues to move inch by inch to the magnificent mile that I imagine the musical could be. It exists completed in my mind's eyes. The story, the sets, the costumes, the actors, the music, the words, the dancing, the sorrow, the joy, the humor, the terror. They all exist. Now I need to birth it.
There are other writing projects that I might revitalize. I have at least a dozen children's picture book stories, the most notable being "My Kitty is a Memory Now," which is a story about my cat Mirah and my dealing with her death. Perhaps the book will help children deal with the death not only of pets but also family and friends who die.
Perhaps I should try my hand at fiction and write my first novel (or start with a short story at least) but for some reason creating life doesn't really interest me. My strength comes with recreating existing life and possibly giving it order and shedding light on its meaning.
Anyway, a sabbatical from writing seems fair and better than calling it writer's block. Don't you agree? Happy Thanksgiving. I am off to put out my Christmas decorations early so I have time to bake cookies!