To write or not to write...

I can no longer write. I am dried up. I've lost it. I may have to do a sob now.

My last post; a letter to my future Mr Rella went down better than a bottle of Amaretto on Christmas Day. Huzzah, I thought. What a wondrous feeling to connect with so many, I thought. I am basically a new found writer and wonderfully insightful person whose blog will become known around the world for its witty, heartfelt and warmth that will touch millions. I thought.

So why then, over a month later am I still writing paragraph after paragraph of utter drivel? Drivel that perhaps pre-successful post I would have sent floating into cyber space for you all to read over but now seems ill equipped to handle to hype of the last post. How did Austen do it? How did she turn out masterpiece after masterpiece? Oh, because of the whole literacy genius thing. Right. Yeah, I hear that helps.

Has it been that I have been sublimely happy over the past month and that I have had little to write about? Oh, how I laugh at the mere suggestion. 2013 has been one giant, metaphorical kick in the balls. I have had to deal with grief (more than once. In one weekend), heartache (again. But this time there was the devastation of closure. Closure that I forced and am now not sure The Boy will ever forgive me for), moving; flat, classes and teams as well as the mistake of an estate agent that almost left me homeless. Oh, it's been a modern day Austen novel that she would have been proud of. Her hero having been introduced (probably around the time I moved to The North!) was now having her life poetically shat on from a great height. In quick succession. One drama would have been difficult but manageable, however, having it all land my miserable lap to fight and deal with on my own was almost more than I could handle. I did though. I even moved every last piece of my belongings from one flat to the other single handedly when one friend hurt their back and The Boy had stomped on my heart and pride would not allow me to ask for his help. Although to his credit, he had offered.

So you see, I have had drama and heartache and pain and yet I sit down to my laptop or iPhone to lovingly release my feelings and...*tumbleweed*...nothing. Worse than nothing; drivel. How, I wonder, am I going to locate my MoJo? And where do I even begin looking?

As I sit here in my new, beautiful, tiled step-into-bath with heavenly spotlight (will I ever love anything as much? I find it hard to believe) I can't help but think that my moment of writing greatness has passed me by and I didn't take the time to appreciate it enough. Perhaps someone new will come along one day and inspire me in such a way that I dazzle you all again. Perhaps I will always be trying too hard to live up to one OKish post that I wrote once when high on painkillers, antibiotics and hurt from a boy I find it difficult to believe I will never not love. In a way. Perhaps I'll never live up to it and will one day be happy with the fact that I once wrote something that people called beautiful; that made a few grown men cry; that inspired me to want to achieve better.

And surely, we should always be trying to achieve greatness in our lives. In one area or another!? So I'm sorry if I never write anything you guys enjoy as much as my letter to my future, but hopefully I'll have fun trying to out write myself.