I've been mired in a thick swamp of creative paralysis for months. A combination of turning 50, self-publishing Cyn and comfortable clients have drug me into the quagmire of apathy. Large leaves of personal failure block the sun and I'm tired of dragging through the dark shadowed mud. I stand in the everglade, overwhelmed by her vastness. I grasp vines of self pity and allow them to wrap around my wrists. Eventually, subtly, they twist around my bicep and slowly inch toward my neck.
My life is wonderful. I would venture to say, not all that far from perfect. I'm finding it's not the best environment for creativity.
