Blocked

When a writer has nothing to write about but the inability to find anything worth writing about, it is time to stop writing. For this reason, I have not written anything for a while, and likely will not for a while longer.

It is not that there is nothing worth writing about - there is the afternoon of sex in Forest Park with D, for example, which included a brief act of penetration from behind while standing on the stage in the bandshell, in full view of what, had there been one, would have been the audience; or several nights spent with D, either at home or a nearby hotel, any one of which would be worthy of a write-up, had I not written up many similar occasions before. I do not feel the urge to write as an aide-memoire. I have few readers to disappoint. And I am thinking about things other than sex, even though I am still having plenty of sex.

I misunderstand the point of a blog, I am told, if I think that I should write only when I have something worth writing about. Bloggers are just those who write whether or not they have anything worth writing about. And this post is, indeed, a nice proof that I understand that point after all.