There are days I’m close to certain that I’ll never write again.

Today is one of those days.  Maybe it’s the pre-holiday list-making, store-hopping, impulse-buying, list-amending, list-losing, list-remaking frenzy.  Or the 24-hour stomach flu that is stubbornly refusing to honor its term limit.  Or the fact that our relic of a washing machine quit MID CYCLE and I now get to lug ninety-five pounds of wet laundry up from my basement, into the car, and all the way over to somebody else’s basement.

Maybe it’s because I haven’t been reading much.  I usually find that when I stop reading, I stop writing.  And I’m certainly not without books.  Good ones, even.  I just don’t feel like reading them.

Maybe it’s because it’s hunting season, and too bitter cold to walk the dogs on the beach.  Walking is good for writing.

Whatever it is, it’s happened before.  It happens a lot.

And then it stops happening.

Somebody will say something that reminds me to read something that makes me want to write something else.  Hunting season will end, or we’ll all stop caring how cold it is, and we’ll hit the trails again.