Agony is the author who has no voice. (Literally for a few days in my case.) Agony is the ideas slipping out of your fingers and vanishing into vapor as you attempt to scribble them down. Agony is the torment of attempting to write something, anything for your audience and continually finding yourself staring at a blank page as words refuse to form.
Honestly, I find myself feeling a measure of despair over how hard it has been to get any writing done. Even my journal entries have been difficult. I know that being sick tends to make me get depressed. Being depressed makes it very hard for me to write. All of this, however, feels like tawdry excuses on par with the ancient 'the dog ate my homework' line.
I wish I had an eloquent apology for my lapses. I wish that I could show you all the effort I put in trying to produce work for you. Sadly, words fail me and I ... I find my attempts so utterly unworthy of the light of day that they wouldn't be merely a dusty heap at the bottom of a proverbial waste basket. No, I would be the one who lit them afire and buried the ashes in the desperate hope that no sign of their existence was known.
I may have a problem with being a perfectionist. That gets in the way a significant amount of the time as well. In giving myself permission to write poorly, I find myself often taking that work and hiding it from the world. Someday, long after I have departed this life, I am sure someone will take an interest in the volumes of material that I have sitting around that never made it into my books. Hopefully that person in the future will forgive the fact that it is not as high quality as what made it to print.
Long story short, I apologize for my silence. I have been unwell and it is making pretty much everything difficult right now.