The writing slump is ending.

Too many medical fears – my wife’s recent close call after contracting a dangerous infection on top of everything else – and financial woes threw my motivation to write fiction into a tar pit.

The fear that comes with uncertainty and morbidity takes a toll on anyone’s psyche and I was just another one of its recipients. Creative energy was quietly replaced by dark observations and the subsequent frustrations of the world’s current political state. Mindless entertainment and mobile device games passed the time between work and family obligations. Sleep became more and more desirable to pass the days when it was an option. A few too many sips of bourbon helped ensure that.

Looking back, I can point out a plethora of reasons I ended up here, but what’s the point? All I can do is recognize where I am and set a new direction. Wallowing in self-pity and introspective pondering won’t accomplish anything, except, perhaps, provide a character trait in an new story.

Today I found this incredible discomfort ripping at my heart. I loathe the idea of complacency and living the mundane, and yet, I found myself there. An overwhelming urge to write something – anything – is pushing me to write this self-reflective piece now. So I’m going with it. When it’s complete, a new world begins.