I haven’t felt like writing lately. Every night for a week or more I’ve pulled up my blog and watched the cursor flash back at me. Blinking. Blinking.
I’ve stared at it hoping something will inspire me to write, but nothing does. Nothing has. Even now after I’ve typed these few sentences I’ve got nothing.
I suppose I could tell you all about how I’m longing to find myself in a big old historical home with squeaky wood floors on a nice plot of land. Maybe in Maine or New Hampshire. Preferably the view out my windows will have some body of water out them. I’ve always had a thing for old homes. I realize they are a lot to take care of and more and likely a money pit. That’s why I don’t have one at this point in my life. My house is relatively new and has none of the charm of an old house. No history, yet. We are the first ones making history in this home. That’s something I suppose.
Anyway, there’s that blinking cursor again, flashing at me. Yet I have nothing more to say.