en attente

as my vacation creeps closer, i find myself holding my breath, waiting desperately for a moment of peace. work just seems to be getting consistently worse, with customer intelligence declining as the heat rises, and managers determined to lower morale as much as possible in some plan, obvious only to them, to raise productivity.

meanwhile, i've got my usual summer writer's block ~ i'm unable to muster up the creativity to write anything at all, or even edit my old stuff. it'll pass, of course, just in time for me to be frightfully busy and simultaneously have pages of material pressing at my mind for release. i'm being completely unproductive, and i feel only slightly guilty about it. whatever happened to my grand ideals? my desire to write non-fiction over the summer, to compose, to create? vanished with the winter winds, i guess.