My visitors have departed. My family has hit the slopes. I'm alone in the house with my own thoughts, accompanied by a chorus of hums from the dryer, the dishwasher, and my ten-year-old laptop. It's a perfect time to write, to photograph, to create. Yet I think that something has short-circuited in my brain. Creativity fails me. I can only consume.
I finished one great book and have started another. Neither are breezy. To fully appreciate them requires quiet and time. Maybe my brain is filled to the brim with others' words and has no room for its own. Maybe I know that my words will never be as good as those words, so why bother.
Lying in bed last night, I wrestled with an idea. Something I 'd read fueled an idea I'd been noodling about. But it's complicated, and I don't know what I want to say about it. And I wouldn't post it here anyway. It would hurt someone's feelings, and there's no point in that. Always be kind. Another unformed idea to the mental refuse pile.
A photography group I follow is starting a year-long project that I may try. A photo a week, inspired by a weekly prompt. I think a project would motivate me, and the 365 projects seem too daunting. Like they will feel like homework by day five. 52 might be a manageable number. I could start right now. Take out the camera, look around, see what I come up with. But I'm just not feeling it. The camera is still tucked snugly in my new camera bag, one big enough to carry all my stuff all the time. I'm happy just having it with me. Maybe inspiration will come later.
In the meantime, I shuffle between reading a book in the recliner and blogs at the desk. The constant consumption of words and ideas. Maybe one will trigger something. Maybe I'll be ready to create again soon. Maybe my brain will come off holiday.