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Not writer’s block for the important things, luckily. No. I’m having blog writer’s block. I’ve been thinking for some time now that I need to step up and post another entry. The problem is, I can’t think of thing one to write about. Even as I’m typing this I have no idea where this entry is going or how it will ever become one coherent piece of writing. Maybe it won’t.

I’m having the same problems with my MySpace journals, too. There’s so much going on at this time in Resonance’s story I shouldn’t be having issues with getting an entry together for her. Still, I can’t seem to get one out. The same goes for my MySpace blog. I can’t think of anything relevant or even remotely important to say. Personally, I’ve been to see some really great bands, I’ve been making progress with the novel, my favorite holiday will be here in a week… There are tons of topics to write about. But, I feel like a kid in school staring at those dreaded words etched across the top of my double-ruled notebook paper, “What I did on my summer vacation.”

So, if I have topics, does that mean I can officially be diagnosed with Writer’s Block? I don’t think so. Then, it must be something else.

The wind is blowing today. The sun is in and out, leaving my desk in dappled brilliance one minute and then doused in shadow the next. It’s around fifty-five degrees and the chill is creeping through the un-insulated panes of my ancient windows.

I live in a historic neighborhood where there’s more sidewalk than lawns. Outside, the leaves from my neighbor’s trees are skittering down the street with that dry, rustling sound. I’d like to join them. Not that I’d actually enjoy tumbling down the street, getting tar, gravel and a random piece of glass or two embedded in my skin, but in fantasy-world, I think I’d like to be a wind-blown leaf, toppling around with nothing but the breeze for a guide.

Most people become distracted when the flowers start to bloom and the trees are all tinged with green and the first whiffs of warmth are tucked into the wind. But here I am, getting excited because the air has finally picked up that deep, earthy smell. I’m happy the time has finally arrived when the oppressive heat and rampant verdancy has given way to the brief period when the leaves become bright and then fade as they fall to the ground, when the air becomes chill and the stars in the sky seem to shine a little brighter (and a lot earlier). I have ‘fall fever.’ I’m in love with the newborn autumn and there’s no room in my heart (or mind) for anything else at the moment. If there were any deadfall other than pine needles decorating my six-foot wide backyard, I’d be raking and then jumping into them, pulling the leaves over my prone body like a blanket as I did when I was a kid. Only in the fall, only with leaves can death smell so wonderful.

Next week is Halloween, or, for the pagan-minded, Samhain (SOW-in, not Sam-HAIN). The veils between the worlds will thin and the spirits of those that have passed can again freely walk among us. It’s an ancestor night. A time of remembrance. It’s also grown into a night that is a mixture of fun and fright — for demons, monsters, costumes and candy. I respect and celebrate both traditions, and look with glee to the time when the hour falls back this Sunday in seeming preparation for Tuesday night. The spirits, as well as the ghouls and devils, will then have ample darkness in which to wander.

Maybe I’m distracted because I can sense the veil thinning, can feel the shades as they prepare for their bi-annual return to this plane. Or, more likely, I’m a writer, and live more in my imagination than I should. If that’s the case, though, why aren’t I writing when this time does so much to heighten my illusions? Why aren’t I taking the energy I feel with the fall and infusing it into one or more of my journals? I guess the answer is because this is the one time of year where I don’t have to pretend alone. Everyone else is finally with me, creeping through the darkness, squinting through the shadows, ever on the lookout for the denizens of the Other World. This is my Christmas and I’m happy to be celebrating it with everyone else.

I guess that’s a good enough answer for me. There’s probably some bullshit in there, but that’s what happens when one tricks oneself into writing an entire post. At least I had the chance to expound on one of my favorite subjects.

I was in Target a while back and they had just put out the costume displays. A woman pushed a cart past me. In the basket, leaning forward like Leonardo DiCaprio in Titanic was a little boy. With arms stretched out towards the far-off display, he yelled, “Halloween, here I come!” I couldn’t have said it better.