How is it that I used to write so much and, now, I can barely push out a paragraph? Any creativity or drive or whatever the fuck you want to call it is no longer directed towards the (precious, precious) world of blogging.
"Loved your post! Awesome! Especially loved this part where you wrote, blah, blah, blah."
I don't have that luxury anymore.
What once seemed like a big, rolling sea is a little bathtub now and I have to actually hoard my meager supply.
You see, my job has pulled the writer's soul out of me, I'm afraid. My miserable fucking job which shoplifts so much of my happiness did what I used to think was impossible.
So there it is. That's the answer to all the emailed questions I've received about why I don't write as much as had in the past.
By the time I get done dealing with my clients and my frightening manager, I'm done. I'm eaten up. The bathtub has drained.
I feel fucking robbed.