It’s a funny thing how a writer’s block shuts one down.

A friend asked me the other day, ‘when will you write me something’. And I stared at the message and thought, when will I fucking write me something?

Buck made mention in a recent comment of good stuff I’ve been writing and I wondered who’s blog he’s mistaken for mine. Mine, you see, has become a series of place-holder posts, made just so I still have some change on this page, or because I’ve found some funny lolcat or a song that fit my mood particularly well.

I look back and can’t even find the last entry I’d call writing.

Where in the fuck did my creativity go? The worst thing is, most of the time, I don’t even care. I look at my blog editor, ecto, and have nothing. Nothing at all.

I was accused of starting a new, secret blog, but if that’s true, it’s so secret even I can’t find it. If you find it, let me know, ok? Because maybe I left what used to be a decent ability to write over there someplace.

Even writing this is a struggle. The effort seems ill-spent when I know I’m getting nothing.

My collection of writing ideas is growing, and yet, they’re notihng but a line, a concept, a description. I can’t convert to narrative. I can’t find the voice I need.

Last night I was watching Moonlight, the new angel rip-off series about a vampire detective. I wanted to like it, for all the heavy stylistic borrowings; vampire as hard-boiled detective. The show’s got some good actors, and a lot of appeal. Yet the writing was horrible; a grab-bag of hard-boiled cliches linked with clumsy dialog and self-conscious pop-culture references. And I couldn’t stop thinking, god, I could do this so much better. I can do hard-boiled. God knows I’ve read enough of it to know all the hammet/chandler/thomas/macdonald/parker cliches. I can write that stuff in my sleep.

And then I thought, no, I can’t. I can’t even write a blog entry anymore.

Where’d it go? And why don’t I care?