I can't face writing this morning.
I can't come up with anything witty to say.
I can't force myself through the present struggles of 'now', the pain that's been with me since July, to sound pulled-together, wise, or over-coming.
I just can't.
Writers are supposed to writ ewhat they know. We're supposed to make writing a discipline, not dependent on whether we want to write, but about putting our butts in the chair consistently, to practice our craft diligently so that when the muse visits, we're ready.
Today I have a pittance.
It feels like an inconsequential offering.
I feel resentful rather than surrendered.
Writing feels forced rather than proffered.
Sometimes faith is expressed in words dredged from a muddy mind, offering up the only crumbs I have, in belief that God does the most when I give him so little.
I can't do less than offer him something.
He extends me his all.