I should be writing.

Well, I am writing, but this is not what I should be writing.

I should be writing a sexy story that I can post for Wicked Wednesday or Frisky Friday, and not what is essentially going to be a diary entry, but here I am.

I am currently suffering from a creative block and it’s driving me crazy.

Sex should be easy to write about.

Two (or more, hey, orgy!) people get together and fuck. Describe in as much detail as possible, use a variety of words for the involved body parts, and there you go, a good, smutty story.

Except there I don’t go.

I am not inspired to write about sex right now.

I don’t know why.

Yes I do.

But I’m not telling.

No, it’s not that I am not having sex.

I’m getting it. Getting it good, too.

Still uninspired.

One of my stories, Imagine, was featured on thoughtcatalog.com, recently. The publisher of the feature contacted me afterward to say that my story had gotten much positive feedback, and that the quality of my writing was pretty decent.

For an erotic writer, he meant, I am sure.

I was floored. I think I am an okay writer. I’ve read worse, but I have read better.  Much better.

I want my next story to be great. I’m not sure how to do that right now.

What do I write about?

Yes, sex, duh, but what? A chance encounter? A threesome? Public sex? Deep-throating your boss at the office Christmas party?

Hey, that’s not a bad idea.

But that’s just it. I have ideas. Just no urge to flesh them out.

I start, and then…. nada.

Usually when I get an idea my fingers can’t keep up with my brain.

Now? My fingers rest limply on the keys and I am about as excited as I would be at Crocs and Uggs convention.

It’s very frustrating.

It makes me sad.

I should be writing, and I’m not.