I've had one hell of a bout with writer's block the past eighteen months. Two thousand and sixteen was a dry spell if I've ever seen one. I can't get my thoughts together, I can't focus on anything. I'll write for a few minutes and then the well runs dry. Just like that, snap! It's like a carpenter with all his tools and a room full of lumber, and he just looks at it and says, "Fuck it, I don't know what the hell I'm doing in here." I'm like a boxer with a broken nose - doesn't mean they're gonna pull me from the fight, but to win this fight now would be more than unusual. 

Hunter Thompson was a good writer. He wasn't necessarily prolific, but when he died in 2005, he left a letter that, read from the perspective of a 'fellow' writer, gives you chills. Thompson had written some masterpieces, disguised as inebriated odysseys, including Hell's Angels, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas and The Rum Diary. Yet in his later years, he was releasing compilations and collections of his previous work. Growing up with him, in a way, you wanted some new material, something to sink your teeth into. When he wasn't producing, you almost felt afraid he wouldn't produce again.

Hunter Thompson did, in fact, produce some works in the 1990's and 2000's, but naturally it wasn't at the caliber of his previous work. And you know what - he knew it. In his final letter, penned to his wife, Thompson said:

No More Games. No More Bombs. No More Walking. No More Fun. No More Swimming. 67. That is 17 years past 50. 17 more than I needed or wanted. Boring. I am always bitchy. No Fun – for anybody. 67. You are getting Greedy. Act your old age. Relax – This won’t hurt.

As a writer, one who can't find the spark anymore, who struggles with everything, who feels numb in the front side of his head like an icepick's been jammed up through his nose, I read those words above and they touched me. As Thompson might say, albeit taken far out of context, I got 'the fear'.

I can't know what Hunter was going through, but what I can say is that writing brings you a confidence, light heartedness and satisfaction unlike anything else in this world. And when it's gone...it's hard. Really hard.

The world is dead around you. People stink. Food tastes off. Music puts you to sleep. Movies seem contrived, as do most books. Every step you take feels useless. The sun rises, but you can't feel it on your face. You're invited, often unwillingly, to events, but you don't care whether you go or not. You stare people in the face and you say anything you can to avoid conversation, to avoid connection, to avoid interaction. Everything everyone says hurts, exhausts you, makes you feel bitchy. You just want to curl up and die. And at the very least, among those of us with tools to cope, you begin to realize you're staring down a void; the Abyss.

And all for what? To write again? Yeah. Fuck yeah. Writing is breathing, and I'm struggling to keep my eyes open sometimes.