On not writing

Maybe it's the same thing Samuel Beckett was talking about in 1937:

"It is indeed becoming more difficult, even senseless, for me to write in English. More and more my own language appears to me like a veil that must be torn apart to get at the things (or the nothingness) behind it. Grammar and style, to me they seem to have become ass irrelevant as a Victorian bathing suit or the impeturbability of the true gentleman: a mask. . . ."

Or maybe it's winter blahs; my version of Seasonal Affective Disorder persists, I think, even under relatively sunny skies. It's the day length as well as the brightness.

Or maybe it's just writer's block.

Which I will try, try, to step on and, lifted, look around a bit.