Every writer – or thinker for that matter, goes through cycles and peaks, slumps and empty zones. Not so much the slough of despond as it is the deep vale of lying fallow, of letting the seeds of so many years lay untended in the deep earth of the mind to work out their renewal without the aid of consciousness. I’ve been in one of those sloughs for months, knowing that I could write daily but it would be of little import. One needs to tend these periods of blankness attentively. It’s usually a prelude to a rising tempest of creativity to come. One cannot push out of such times to quickly, but must instead allow for that deep pressure of the mind to work its power in silence and strength. I will return, it will return: this power of the mind that pressures us to create, to think, to explore.