writing, creativity, and ice scrapers in the back seats of cars that are more significant and useful than those airport novels

I move back to Rhode Island tomorrow for the semester. Well, actually I am going back to RI for about a day, going to work in RI tomorrow, then going to class 8-5 on Thursday, then leaving at 5 on Thursday to come home, then going to Boston either Thursday night or Friday to visit my Jonathan for the weekend. I am really looking forward to going to Boston this weekend to see him. Spending time with him is always fun, and we're going to go ice skating, go out for tea (which we always do), and DRINK. I love it.

Anyways, I went off on a tangent. I'm moving back to Rhode Island tomorrow. This semester I am going to try to organize group rides with the cycling club. The cycling club there is kind of dormant so I want to revive it.

I'm also taking creative writing class. Well, it's sort of creative writing class. It's its weird own little class. It's a 400 level writing class in the women's studies department, but it's taught by a fiction writer, so it's a fiction writing class. Anyhow, I'll have to stay deep in the creative process this semester in order to do well in the class. I need to take the class to take my writing and my creative process to the next level, and I haven't done that in so long. It's just such a drain to go all out and write. I can't just write fun little poems here and there for fun. It's either going to be everything or nothing. Lately (as in the past few years) it's been nothing. It's just not the time to write. And instead of driving myself towards insanity about it the way Plath did for example, I'll just accept it. It's not the time to write. Maybe now it is, since something told me to take this class this semester. But I have to stop beating myself up over not having written anything significant the past two or three years. It's not writer's block. There is no such thing as "writer's block." People who suffer from "writer's block" write suspense novels or romance novels thrown away in airports or left to get dirty and wet on the backseat floor of cars. They get torn up every time you throw your ice scraper down next to them, or stained every time you toss that styrofoam white, orange and purple Dunkin' Donuts coffee cup next to them . They're just as insignificant as the authors who wrote them. And if that sounds condescending and elitist, then, yea, it is.

So will I write anything of significance this semester? Will I finally submit something to a literary magazine? A poetry contest? Will I invest myself in my writing the way I did in high school? If I don't, why not? Am I lazy, or is it just not the right time? Will the right time show itself eventually? Do I have to move away somewhere to be able to write? What is it?