Winter Blues.

A little known fact about me: I struggle through January and February (and sometimes even March) with the desire to not get out of bed. My energy wanes and I feel sluggish and barely-there almost constantly. So far this year hasn’t been so bad because the weather in central Illinois has been unusually mild. And by that I mean it’s wavered between the forties and the fifties in temperature for all but a few days this winter.

I’ve still had energy, but I’m not sure I’m making the most of it.

Another confession: other than my daily haiku and the occasional blog post, I’ve barely written anything--even in my private journal. Instead I find other ways to occupy my time: reorganizing my dresser drawers and all three of my desks AND my craft bureau; watching the entire series of Six Feet Under on DVD lent to me by a friend (thanks April!), reading all three books in the Hunger Games series in under seventy-two hours, and of course, sleeping in copious amounts.

Yes, this former-night owl who used to stay up until 2 or 2:30 AM every day even when she had to be up five hours later for work, has taken to going to bed at 10:30 on the dot nearly every night (just not on Saturdays, because I stay up til 1 to watch The Big Bang Theory on Fox at 12:30).

So even though physically I feel all right so far this year, I’m still procrastinating when it comes to writing. It’s not that I don’t have ideas--I have at least six separate novel plots spinning in my mind--it’s that getting myself to sit down and write them out is a lot more difficult than it used to be.

However, I know I’m going to have to just sit down and start typing very soon, or else face a life of either mediocrity or a one way ticket to the nearest mental hospital when I finally start blabbering about fictional characters that no one knows about but me, and the terrible conflicts they are battling out in my head.

And let’s face it: the latter isn’t a very pretty mental image.

Also I’m fairly certain that a strait jacket would do nothing for my pale complexion. Unless they make them in green now anyway.

But I digress.

Sometimes the battle isn’t really the cold dreary weather at all.

Sometimes…it’s just ourselves.

"The Zone."

I wonder exactly when I became my own worst enemy. Did it happen suddenly, or was it gradually, little wears and tears over time and space?

One minute I knew what I was doing. I was writing--all the time. Hours would pass as I sat at my computer, unaware of what was going on around me. Sometimes you hear writers talk about “the zone” or something to that effect, where they claim they are just vessels for the muse, simply typing what they are instructed to type.

I know that place. I used to go there a lot. It was my escape, my saving grace. Bored in economics class? No problem. I’d just pick up my pen and quit paying attention. Zoning out for me was a spiritual experience in a way. Hours would pass, and while I might get up and do other things at points--things my body demanded like eating lunch or drinking water or using the restroom, my mind was still in “the zone.” I was locked into the experience, swept away by the thrill and the sweet sensation of being connected to something that was clearly bigger than me; bigger even than my comprehension of it.

These days I can hardly remember what it was like. When I was younger, it came easily and I let it. Anymore, getting to “the zone” or any place remotely resembling it is a struggle. I struggle inwardly, mentally dodging demands of dreary every day tasks like laundry, and dishes, and cleaning, and rarely succeeding to actually sit down in a chair by myself, with no distractions from the outside world and attempt to connect to that place.

Even now, I am distracted. My inner editor is telling me that what I’m writing is terrible, that there are better, more productive ways to spend my time: there are things to be organized, dinner to be eaten, a movie to be watched with my family. Not to mention that I obviously need to check my Facebook, my Twitter feet, Tumblr, and return texts and phone calls to people.

I am not in “the zone.”

But I’m determined to figure out a way to get back there one day soon, because my soul demands it.