Unwritten.

I used to think writing was a gift, a small shift in the grey matter of the people chosen to have it, that enabled us to be able to create.

Some days, it seems like writing is a curse. It's the need to get something, anything, out and having the words flit away from you like butterflies in a field.

These days, writing is more like a muscle, one that I've let atrophy and waste away until I worry that there is too little left there to develop back into the behemoth it once was.

I used to not be able to go anywhere without jotting something down on scraps of paper, littering my purse like a ticker tape parade. Anything that caught my eye, any random idea that popped into my head, they were all written down and compiled in standard unorganized fashion. I've written an entire novel.

I feel blocked and frustrated.