Posting. I'm getting out of practice. It reminds me of something B (my sister-in-law) once said to me when I refused to go riding with her, Spouse and Spouse's brother.

You have to ride, Bevie. I know how it goes. First you don't ride, and then before long you think you can't ride. Then you won't ride. You have to ride. So ride.

As it turned out, did not ride my horse that day. I worked out an agreement with B to ride extra long the next day. She agreed.

The same thing can happen with writing, can't it? Or anything, for that matter.

For nearly a week now I have been considering whether or not to just quit.

Quit what? Everything. Just - give up and let it go.

After February 1st I didn't write. Now I'm thinking I can't write. It's like, why bother? Everything I write s*cks anyway. My dream is a fool's dream, and I have no right to it. I should give up my last hope and just find some cr*p job which pays minimum wage and die a slow death.

This is how the last thing I wrote began:

She crawled out of the mire, mud clinging to her like a second skin. Her hair was matted with thick clumps of goo. Her face was smeared with the shades of purple and green which only hinted at the smell. Slime fell from her cheeks down onto her breast. What did it matter? Her clothes were soaked through.

She looked down the road. The way the others went. No one was in sight anymore. So much for the shortcut.

Most of the spectators had long departed. The runners were gone, why remain? There were a few stragglers. Participants of beverage more than watchers of the race. None paid Lorelei any heed. She had long ceased to matter.

For several minutes she stood in what had once been the path to glory. Somewhere down that road was the prize, and all who crossed the finish line would share in it. But getting there was a problem, and Lorelei was tired. She had exhausted herself in the mire, and extracting herself from it had taken all she had left. She was done. She knew it. For her, the race was over.

Do you ever feel like that?