Dating

I’ve had a near-complete mental block on writing for months. The months prior were a slow closure of the door to my thoughts, creaking ominously, rather than a sudden slam; I could write, then I could write occasionally, then I could sort of write, and then I could barely write at all. I tend to blame it on the Wellbutrin. Sometimes directly — the medicine that keeps me from wanting to walk endlessly into the Gulf of Mexico is also taking away my passion. Other times, I feel it is an indirect side effect of the main point of the drug – it makes me not depressed, and we all know that writers only write when the tell-tale heart is being knocked upon by the black thing with feathers that will not stop for death.