So let's review the bidding. Since July 28 -- nearly a month ago -- I have published one small essay on this blog: On August 14, I reminded everyone that in two weeks I'd be in Glasgow. Ready to begin my second walking of the West Highland Way.
That was twelve days ago. Tomorrow, I fly to Glasgow.
My blog has indeed been rich in content. If by "rich" we mean one bare bones description of my planned vacation travel.
And now? It will be another 31 days from now before I return to Seattle. To my computer. To a place equipped to permit me to churn out my next feeble effort.
Well, I do promise to give you, upon my return, a full accounting of my month's leave of absence.
But there was a time -- say last summer -- when you were able to expect more from me -- in quality, and certainly in quantity. Hopefully, my writing flows onward like a sine wave, and we have merely hit the bottom of that wave. We're headed back up! To amazing new peaks of quality, spun out several times a week.
It could happen.
But then I remember the career of E. M. Forster. Along with numerous short stories, Forster wrote five acclaimed novels between 1909 and 1924. His 1924 novel, A Passage to India, was perhaps his best, the subject of a well-received movie in 1984. Forster wrote that last novel when he was 45. He lived to the age of 90, but never wrote another novel or other serious work, aside from some short stories published posthumously, during those final 45 years of his life.
Now that's a serious writer's block. I should post a photo of Mr. Forster above my computer as a stern warning.
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