I've always avoided the whole conversation. Like a sort of jinx, even though I don't believe it. If I ran across a blog or essay on the subject, I blocked it out. Reversing its power. Challenging the whole concept. If it doesn't exist, I don't have to deal with it. But as a writer, if I know anything, it is to write about what you don't want to write about. Face it. Write through it.

So here I am. I've been writing creative nonfiction for ten years. And for ten years I've been avoiding the dreaded 'writer's block' like the plague, well, more like the flu. And it worked fine. Until I finished my first book. And now I'm stuck. Separate essays in the book have been published in literary journals and two of them have been anthologized. The ms is drifting around in several contests.  

And I'm wondering where did the gift go?
If creativity not only uses energy but also produces it, then it's a circle.
I seem to have fallen.
Out of.

I want to fly again. Like a trapeze artist. Flinging myself up into the air of words, waiting for the free fall, trusting.  But I can't seem to let go of the bar.