You know when you forget how to do something you've always done. That. I'm drowning in that. I'm typing this onto a blank Word page while the Bestwick writes for all he's worth in the kitchen (and I have serious word envy). I'm not supposed to be typing this, I'm supposed to be writing a story, the beginnings of a novella, a novel, anything. Heck, I'd even settle for some bad poetry at the moment.
I've come to a complete stop.
I have time. I'm not complaining about lack of that. Actually, the only thing I'm complaining about is me. Sure, I have more things filling my life at the moment but there is still plenty of space for words. I'm also aware some people have no more than ten minutes here and there to write and they get stuff done in those ten minutes. They get stuff done and their lives are difficult. I can have a long hour stretching ahead of me and all I fill it with is a growing sense of dread and sickness. I lie awake at night sometimes worried that I'll never write again, that something has misfired in my brain. It's possible I suppose.
I've written a sum total of two short stories this year. Two. I used to do that in a week (heck I've been known to do that in a day and sell them to excellent markets). I've also written a short novella (or wait, I may have written that last year - whatever, it certainly wasn't recently). It feels like my head is full of things and yet when it stares at a blank screen or a blank page it's empty. There's not a single word floating around in there.
One thing I'm getting very good at is staring into space. Hopefully something weird and wonderful will float by the window and inspire me or maybe the gremlins will climb from beneath my desk and fix the broken bits in my brain. They need me sitting in my office, at my desk, so they can steal my pens and break things--otherwise they have no purpose.
I don't know if writers block exists. This feels more like writer erosion.