I think my Writing Mojo is hiding somewhere on my desk, because I can’t find it.
Last time I saw it, it was in the mess of red-inked, half-written rough drafts adorned with coffee cup rings and post-it notes to myself, somewhere near the applications for grants and fellowships that are all due in two weeks, maybe next to the folders of class notes for the next semester’s classes.
Or maybe it is stuck between the pages of Emmett’s research binder, or in the stacks of notecards waiting to be organized into a physical map of Emmett’s book chapters.
Or maybe I accidentally wrapped it in one of my kid’s teacher’s gifts this past week, or — dread — I baked it in one of the batches of holiday cookies —
I don’t know.
Wherever it is, I need it, and it’s gone. I didn’t notice it was gone until I tried to write this week, and the words just aren’t flowing. They’ve frozen over, like the creek in the back yard did yesterday morning at 21 degrees.
I’m not getting much accomplished with all the things competing for my attention. Maybe this is a blessing; when I’m unfocused, my work is not as good and I have to go back and do it over — which defeats the purpose and progress with Emmett’s book.
I’ve come to the understanding that Mojo Knows Best. It’ll be back in a few days.
Categories: The Writing Life
Communication, Arts, and the Humanities
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