Here’s the thing about being a historian that most people don’t talk about.
You’re a writer, too.
And there is nothing worse than sitting at a desk, with a clear idea of what you want to say–research completed, analysis made–and STILL the words refuse to show up. You can do a dance, a chant, hire a shaman to do a ritual but if it’s not coming out, it’s NOT happening.
You switch up your location, you drink a mighty glass of whiskey . . . still nothing. The muse refuses to speak to you. The first line you write is obvious, the second sentence is heinous, and the third has you wondering why you ever thought you could be an academic in the FIRST place. Even if you are just a baby one.
So that’s where I am, right now. A glass and a bit of Jameson, hoping that my fingers will magically know what to type. Instead, I’ve meandered through videos on youtube, ate the last of my honey-roasted peanuts and a cinnamon-raisin bagel, decided that I need to re-up my exercise regime somehow, and still the page is blank, and the blinking cursor mocks me.