Dry

There are certainly ebbs and flows to productivity as a writer . . . and currently I'm going through a dry spell. I'm writing (quite a bit, actually) but the synapses just aren't firing. That, and it seems that publishers have all but ground to a halt. This may be the longest period of time I've experienced writing without a contract (two years now). For a writer, it's like being unemployed.

Not that I haven't had interviews and sent in resumes or had acceptances from magazines. I've got more book proposals, books, essays, stories, poems, articles, and satire in my arsenal than ever . . . but no one's giving the nod. Publishers just aren't biting. I've sent more emails, made more phone calls, mailed more letters to editors over the past year than I ever have. My agent is shopping handfuls of my book proposals . . . but it's like the Sahara desert.

And not that I have anything else to do at midnight or four o'clock in the morning. My wife is still in school taking night classes and writing papers, my high school junior son rarely makes an appearance except to eat four plates of food, and two weeks ago our dog was very likely eaten by coyotes. I used to talk to the dog (my best friend) but now there's nothing to do but write. (But I have split and stacked about five ricks of wood too, so I'm still good for something.)

Dry spells always end. But I've been thinking about writing essays about dogs, or perhaps a book about lumberjacks.

Next time I see my wife, I'll ask her what she thinks.