In the wake of what happened with me and my wife, I've been seeing a therapist. I've been working through a lot of issues, things that I tried to bury alive, things that weren't quite dead. Normally, being passionate about fitness and self-motivation, it wouldn't even be worth mentioning. Usually, I say whatever you have to do to stay healthy and continue working forward is necessary and wonderful as part of your journey.

But . . .

A lot of the things I've been processing in therapy have led me to writer's block; the first time I've dealt with it in years. Then again, it's not really writer's block . . . it's just a general lack of motivation. My fingers don't want to tap the keys, I don't to write. I feel like I'm out of words, out of ideas. Even if I do find an idea, it's hard to get revved enough to do anything about it. At least, that's how I've felt. Through the summer, through my personal struggles, I didn't think it mattered. I always assumed the writing would come back to me whenever it wanted. When it didn't come back on command, I started to panic. Writing isn't only a passion, what I've always wanted to do. It's ALSO therapy for me. It's also motivation, personal worth and how I work on myself.

If I can't do that, then I've lost a very very large piece of myself. And, for about two months, I did think I lost it. That's like the realization of drowning. You always crawl toward the water's surface, expecting to spring out, breathe air and live. You EXPECT to be able to follow your own commands. When you realize that the situation is much more grave, that you're dying, that a very LARGE piece of you is suffocating under the water, the wave of crushing oblivion rolls over you. It makes you everything you strive to hate as a creative mind--uselessness, similarity, familiarity, non-unique . . . faceless and forgotten.

I once read about an issue Stephen King had with awful writer's block in the wake of his accident. When I first heard that story, I couldn't entirely relate. Now, I can. Just like I had the tremendous respect for how he worked through it, I've gained that respect for myself. Today . . . I'm starting a new project. Whether it will be any good, I don't know. I just know it needs to be written. It needs to get my fingers moving. It needs to help get me well. It needs to help me get the fuck up and get the fuck over. Even if I'm out of practice, even if the material is sub-par, it'll be the most important creative work I've ever written. It'll help me learn how to be whole again.

It'll help me learn how to be well.

I'm going to light a cigar and get to work. You'll know where to find me.

Hope all is well!

Best,

John