When a Writer Stops

I have written daily since the age of seven or thereabouts.

Whether it was a poorly crafted haiku or a simple short story, the words needed to flow. My hands were a conduit, the pen (or keyboard) — a vessel — the paper and eventually the computer, a means to one end before I picked up another beginning.

And then one day not too long ago, I stopped. Or at the very least, the words dried up.

My words, my prolificacy had reached a precipice that I likened to a blood clot, best left a...