Writing about not writing

I seem to have run out of steam. Run out of things to say. Run out of the energy to say them. Run out of the will-power to be bothered.

I read an article in the Guardian at the weekend by Jack Monroe and in my head I "wrote" a long post about gender identity and stereotyping. And then I thought, "why bother?" It wouldn't have been funny, or amusing or erudite, just more "blah, blah, blah" from inside my head.

I nearly wrote about the irritating features of my new pyjamas, but that seemed too trivial, even considering that one pair of pyjamas has managed to wind me up in two different ways. And I still like them.

I could have written about my challenging emotional relationship with a large fuchsia shrub in my garden, but that seemed too peculiar, even for me.

I could have written about the things that LittleBear is saying and doing, but he's just so lovely, and wonderful, and funny, and clever, that if I try and write about him I know I'll just come across as the worst kind of bragging, smug mother in the world. So I didn't write that.

One of my friends suggested I could write about the reaction in the UK to one policeman's death while on duty, and in some way contrast it to, well, something, about the US. But I didn't want to start a flame war. And I'm not even sure what point he thinks I could or should be making.

I could have written about being tired. About being tired of being tired. Of being tired of complaining about being tired. But I'm tired of writing about being tired. And having spent time with fellow mothers recently, I know I have it easy in so many ways.

I thought about writing about work. But then I remembered that it would probably be a good idea to keep my job, and this is a public blog, so I shouldn't write the things that I'm thinking. Besides which, the minutiae of our office politics are minute, and tedious even when you live them, let alone for someone else to read about.

I might have written about the giant beanie volcano I'm making (no, really I am). But it's not finished, and I don't know if it ever well be, or quite how I'm going to manage to make the cave inside it. So perhaps I shouldn't have mentioned it at all, because now if I never finish it, you'll all know about the failed project.

So I haven't written for a week. And this is just a holding pattern, to explain why I haven't written. I don't think this is the beginning of the end of writing. Maybe it's the end of the beginning and my initial enthusiasm has waned. Or maybe I'm just in a blue funk and can't really be arsed with life at the moment. That sounds more like it. I just can't be arsed.