Over the weekend, I re-read three Neil Gaiman books: American Gods, Anansi Boys, and Good Omens (with Terry Pratchett). They made me smile and, at times, laugh out loud at others. But, when I finished them, a lugubrious mood settled over me. Not the one that I normally feel when completing a good book and regret that it has ended. No, I felt bad because I haven’t written anything over the past two weeks. Moreover, I haven’t written any fiction in over a year.

I really want to write.

I think that I used to have a pretty good handle on story-telling. Nowadays, I don’t know if I still have that knack. Have I lost it? Has it gone fallow? Has it withered to a point of death?

I don’t know.

I tried to brainstorm some ideas, yesterday afternoon. And came up with bupkis.

Not a single good idea.

Not a single bad idea, either.

No ideas.

I’ve reached some kind of wasteland, some kind of desert. I suffer a drought of fine creativity.

And, I’m angry about it.

So, watch out.