I was feeling uninspired and creatively dulled. Oh, I could write about anything easily, really. I could draft a predictable romance or some stupid dragon fantasy. I could tell a cautionary tale or even take a thrill ride on a stream-of-consciousness piece. I could involve animals for cuteness, irony, metaphor, or even to champion animal rights. Space battles? Easy!

I could wield maudlin, chagrin, regret, irony, epiphany, metaphor, and even the dark in ways that are good but, regrettably, had all been done before. Dark and stormy nights are for pussies! The best of times really are the worst.

I'm yawning.

All that's been done before. Where's the fun in such things?

There are no new twists to be had. Writing—good writing—is not just recycling. Emulate Hemmingway? There are still Hemmingways around in his estate to pay a lawyer for a cease-and-desist. Rip off Vonnegut? Yeah, just try. It won't even be close. Channel the NYT best sellers? You don't have a head start, so forgeddabout it. Magic, witches, wizards vs coming-of-age, thrillers, or whodunnits? I'm not just yawning.

I'm desperate.

I must write something that's never been read before. That's the only way I can climb Mazlow's pyramid. I want a sentence that has never been uttered to leap off the page and hook the stupid agent who insists on that "good fit."

The opening line would have to be unique, totally novel, even startling but, most importantly, be something that's never been said or read before—in English or any language.

And so I begin...

He looked like a millionaire on a horse. (I don't exactly know what that means, but a millionaire on a horse must look some good.)

Quick, hand me the piano! (That depends on who's saying it. You wouldn't want a large percussion instrument to fall into the wrong hands. After all, it's not just black and white.)

The way I see it, Hitler had a point. (No, wait, someone said that recently, although Grammarly reports, "This text is well-written.")

I loved her like a cactus. (Although I could wrap a whole novella around explaining how that was true.)

Even the cows laughed at my thumbs. (Has anyone ever tested the cow demographic about thumbs? Gotta think.)

We made love on the beaches of Normandy on D-Day as the bullets flew over us. (I'm afraid I can't write that, even if I want to write something that's never been written before. There are limits to both the laws of physics and the rules to lovemaking that cannot be broken. Well, maybe the laws of physics.)

We made love on the beaches of Normandy the day after D-Day, the spent bullets in the sand no more bothersome than the sand fleas. (Now you're talkin'!)

On the day my father died, I beat Mick Jagger bowling, two games out of three, blindfolded. (Imagine the exposition derived from explaining that Mick Jagger is my father and that I used The Force to beat him.)

My wastebasket fills with single, crumpled sheets, each with a single impossible sentence. Some sentences, it turns out, are dead on arrival. I throw a match in, the impossible sentences are, again, impossible, as the paper ashes float away.

No wonder I'm never a good fit. And no wonder I'm no damn millionaire on no damn horse! And now I wonder about my thumbs.

The ideas aren't gone. They're worse than gone. They hover just out of reach, like a name on the tip of your tongue, like a dream vanishing the moment you wake up. They taunt. They wait. They know they're in control.

I keep waiting for something to break, for the spark to come back. Maybe it will. Maybe it won't. Maybe inspiration forgives. Maybe it doesn't.

This much remains certain: words come, eventually. Even these words. Even now. Whether they're worth the wait: that's another story.

(write anyway—because rust doesn’t stop a blade from cutting)

I find it interesting that an “Inspiration” prompt with such a fast-approaching deadline has already garnered double-digit responses. Seems that being asked to describe why you’re uninspired has inspired so many to submit such quality writing. That’s reflective of the talent residing within each of you.

So, don’t think of it as being uninspired or creatively dulled or having writer’s block or experiencing composition constipation or any other euphemism. Think of it as you’ve just got to remember where you put that key to unlock your gift for writing. Because after reading these and other entries on The Prose, there’s a lot of creativity that has already been tapped into and on display.

That’s my two cents (or a nickel if a tariff is to be levied).

I just write something I actually quite liked, but I can't finish the last line and now I hate it. Also, I don't feel that it is relatable to other people. Most of us don't hear voices in our head or refer to ourselves in the plural. I often do and subsequently when I write like that I feel like no one will want to read it. So, yes. There is my uninspired, self hating author statement if the day.

Sluggish thoughts

Anaesthetised by fatigue

And aches in my limbs

As I sit and wonder

Where are they?

Those bright sparks of inspiration?

Where have they gone?

All is dull and muted

Empty and worn

The world turns slowly

And I stay still

Paralysed by lack

Lack of ideas

Lack of motivation

Lack of spark

Lack of self-belief

I sip my tea

And stare at the blank page

It stares back - blankly

White and mocking

So instead, I clean the car

I fold my clothes

I brush the snarls from my hair

I gaze out the window

I breathe and listen

Bird calls, the whisper of breeze

The whine of the washing machine

A dog barking in the distance

My eyes follow the delicate wings

Of an orange butterfly

As it flits through the garden

Then alights on a pink flower

Ants are march across bricks

A hornet hovers near the window

Clouds drift lazily in the blue sky

All oblivious to my lack

And as the tiny dramas play out

Under the warm caress of the sun

Of life and death and survival

I imagine living among them

In the soft dirt of the anthill

Or the hexagons of the wasp's next

Under a shady leaf

Or up, up in the restless sky

That which I might tread on

In a careless moment

Is their whole world

And everything that's dear

And the tiny becomes magnificent

And all important

And as it does, my lack retreats

When compared to the majesty of life

The last thing I wrote.I object to rage.

My pen never left the page,so my words were never left alone.

A connection,A kinship of prose.

You cannot force words to intermingle with others,and there's no ands if or buts about it.Including in what i last wrote.

There was no questioning of what I wrote,it flowed like a stream not a raging ocean,from frustration.

I didnt drown in my words,hoping there was something that could pull me out of past temporary writers block situations.

It was natural,not forced.

Maybe it's not writers block,perhaps you are being held back from the words you shouldn't write at this time.

The words aren't ready to emerge,and make that connection with these present words.

They're probably awaiting to be reunited with future words that they already know.

I feel as if my edges have eroded over time. I've become something that spins perfectly in place always moving but never going anywhere. I try new things but eventually end up back where I started. I look around for inspiration but see only what I've known. I crave new experiences, new sights but haven't the means to persue them. I dream but even my imagination has settled into a well worn rut. Even what happens only in my head has no spark, no hook to draw me in. This creative numbness scares me. I already have so little, I can't lose my greatest reprieve, that which makes and sustains me. Without it I'm just a shell, an actor playing a part that has no substance.

There are places in our lives that we do not wish to touch. We avoid the weighted discomfort of our self repression because to confront such a thing is to admit our shortcomings. Being uninspired and bored often coincides with procrastinating. When we put off tasks that are tedious but necessary, it does not help! It compiles our problems and leads to our stress. Then we become itchy and short sighted. Have you put off dusting? Well, that simply will not do! I will do that and THEN, after I have finished, I will wrestle the elephant in the room.

Perhaps we are stuck feeling worthless, unimpressive, or pitiful. Perhaps we cannot pool from the well within our souls because we are empty. Tapped out. Dried up. Painfully depleted. Droughts are a terrible thing. Any friction and it will all go up in flames.

You can set ablaze and ruminate on the past. Visit betrayals, departed loves, or muse on opportunities not ceased. There is potential, but what good can it do? You can fixated on the future. The unfinished and unpredictable future.

It's best when I am uninspired to plant myself down. Bore my flesh into the ground, taste the stale air, hear the light buzzing, and close my eyes into a black abyss. Be present and find the missing piece I am in desperate need of in order to be inspired. Confront the nagging thread that is sticking up from its stitch. What has your mind consumed that you can hardly focus enough to find something in this magnificent life to he inspired by? What are you avoiding within yourself?

Feed your body something nourishing. Rest! Exercise your body as well as your mind. Connect with someone, especially if you haven't had contact in some while. Balance your life and you will find balance in your mind. Only when you are at your best will you be inspired. Life does not come to those who are drying out. It comes to those who seek to quench their thirst! And only through a life WORTH living can you pull from a deep well.

Wondering somehow, even though I can barely think

Wishing I knew what I could do.

I want to talk to people,

but I don't think I have the energy for it.

I want to draw,

but what?

Nothing is popping at me.

I want to write, but I can't feel enough to do so.

So I watch the blood pump through my veins.

Motivated.

Knowing exactly what it wants and is doing.

Pain helps me think, but I don't feel up to it.

Driving to, but the moons not out.

The music isn't hitting right, if anything it's making me sleep.

I want to do something.

I want to sing, but my voice is to tired.

Plus, I don't know what to sing

I want to write

but my soul has been cut from me and I can't find words

I wish

But with no dandelions.

I love,

but with no heart.

I move, but with no energy.

Waiting for the ideas to hit me like they once did.

But until then, I'll be a robot.

Few thoughts,

cold,

working,

but always trying to be something else.

Until my serrated edge gets sharpened into a smooth line.

Until I'm able to cut right to the soul with one stroke.

Lack of inspiration is a nightmare, except not really, because nightmares can sometimes be creative in their misery. Being uninspired is just miserable misery, just aimlessly tapping words on a screen without any idea why you’re doing it, where it’ll lead, if anyone else will ever read it.

This morning has been frustration after frustration after frustration, my parents irritatingly broke in all of their bank accounts and sounding like broken records as they forget the answers to questions they’ve already asked each other, again and that’t not even addressing the irritating bullshit that is the fact I’m getting sent to work early today, meaning I don’t know how or when or if lunch will happen, so I’m grumpy before I’ve even left the house, typing this half-awake, unsure what the fuck I’m doing. Mom just acquiesced that I’ll get to go home between the doctor’s appointment and work.

Still I’m typing this text because I’m uninspired to type out any real writing. The writing game I use, 4thewords, at least is somewhat inspiring, with a flaming blue and purple sword wielded by a baby with a skull face. If nothing else, sometimes just describing the word count monsters can act as inspiration when I have nothing worth writing about. Like now, wherein my only reason for continuing to write currently is the desire to defeat some of these sword-wielding skull babies called Kinguz. The internet is also filled with writing prompts. Then the willingness to write comes down to motivation mainly, which is a different beast than inspiration.