Writer's Enigma

November. The writer's month, supposedly. And also, I anticipate a dreaded month for several writer's as well. Life reminds you: WRITE! November is here.

Someone says: "You need to finish that novel, don't you?"

Away foul temptress! I will write when I am good and ready!

Even still the cold beckons and harks the end of the year. The lack of creativity and motivation sweeps over me like a constant chill.

Can it even be called "Writer's Block" when Inspiration has yet to grace your presence? She refuses to even stand at your doorstep, let alone lift her ethereal hand to knock. What should it be called then? Writer's Block, or something even more convoluted and strange? Like Writer's Enigma, perhaps? It has a nice ring to it; I'll give it that.

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So, it is nearly halfway through November and I am stuck facing Writer's Enigma with no Inspiration in sight. The NEED to create is always there, even though the DESIRE to create is slippery at best.

Should I write? Something? Anything? Should I take a step back and collect my thoughts? I could keep putting it off. Writing, that is. It is so simple to do. Just push it off to the side and continue on my merry way. However, November will be over before I know and I will have nothing to show for her presence.

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As anticipated, the end of November is nigh as I work on adding to the development of this story. If you can even call it such, since it's more a collection of free-flowing thoughts. I started working on this entry at the beginning of November, and today's date, as of now, is November 30th, so a great deal of time has already passed, since the beginning of this journey and now, the hopefully, concluding end.

As I said in the beginning, November has slipped past my fingers as quickly as she came into existence. Here I sit at my desk typing away furiously trying to formulate some final remarks and concluding thoughts to leave you, the audience, with, but I feel words and thoughts fail me. I've no great eloquence or writer's creativity. Every single day I feel like an inferior and a fraud in this great world of creative souls for I am not as talented I feel in my heart, but forever clinging to the Greats and the amazing ways they cultivated the world around them through the use of only language.

But I digress, the end of November is here, and before long, it will be December; and, in a blink of an eye, it will be the dawn of a new year. What then? I feel like Macbeth and the World's a stage that just perpetually creeps at this petty pace--and in the end, perhaps, it will signify nothing, but noise.

I, however, do not want to end it like that. Not that I seek any justification for my work or wish to write something that sounds off my name unto the end of ages. That is not the legacy I seek. For, as I stated earlier, I am no Shakespeare, Poe, Dickinson, Dickens, Fitzgerald, Hemingway, Austen, Walker, Woolf, Williams, Shaw, Ibsen, Dostoyevsky, Brontë sisters, etc.! The list goes on and on so far that there is no way I could encapsulate all of their greatness and impressions they have left on my mind within the binds and time constraints of this, not so great and insightful, work. So, alas, this brief mention of their eloquence and creativity will have to do as I press forward in my own progress. Again, I have no premonitions or falsehoods to achieve their level of remembrance.

Instead I want to be remembered by the few who loved me, and perhaps leave them with some final words and thoughts. That is all I seek and can hope to accomplish with my "works," so begone!--Writer's Enigma, Writer's Block! For I have no time for you and I will persevere through this yet.