I don't claim to be a writer, though I confess that I put a lot of words to paper and to keyboard. I do this mostly for myself, as a way to order my thoughts, preserve my experiences and reflect on my decisions. It's a bit of a compulsion, at times.
Today I'm experiencing a strange disconnect, a dissonance of drive between content and intention.
There is absolutely nothing about which I am inspired to write at present, yet I'm feeling the compulsion to do so. Put another way, I feel that I should be writing. I have that restlessness of spirit that normally accompanies hours at pen-point. I actively desire to compose text but I've no ideas that I deem worthy of paper.
It's an odd and frustrating feeling, a feeling that has now led me to break a cardinal rule of writing; don't write about being a writer.
It'll come to me. Such is the way of things.