I'm a really artistic person. I like to create things. (working on trying to create a baby...ahem... but no luck so far). I love to write novels, sew, paint, all kinds of stuff. But lately???
I tried to replace an old shirt I loved by taking it apart and sewing a new one using the pieces.
The seams are popping and my b**bs don't fit. heh heh
I started a painting WEEKS ago of Westminster Bridge and the houses of Parliament.
This is all I got.
See the pretty reflection on the water? No, that's not my incredible painting talent. That's a camera flash on wet paint. And the angles are off in this one. I fixed it, but I don't have much more done.
I'm into chapter thirteen in my novel entitled "Chasm" and I'm starting the pre-writes on a new novel that will be a modern retelling of Phantom of the Opera. With all these ideas swimming around in my cranium, you'd think that all sorts of magnificent, heart-stopping prose would come spilling everywhere like a glass of water on the Larsen family dinner table.
Nope. Zero motivation.
I'm suffering from what I like to call Creative Constipation.
The ideas are there, waiting to come, wanting to come, but I.... just.... can't.... get.... them.... OUT!
I've fallen in a rut and I can't get out. Do I need a vacation? A massage? More sleep? Less distraction? Maybe all of the above? My own creative pepto-bysmal?