Why is my head so constipated?

The question, comment, or discussion will sound good in my head before I start, all the Spanish/Dutch/Italian verbs lined up obediently, but once I try to bring it into the real world? Nada, nix, niente.

You nailed that song when you sang it in the car, but now that it's Wednesday night at Hulu Island Grill and Tiki Room and there's a karaoke mic in your hand...not so much.

Like this temple, that was an interesting walk.
Why can't I just talk about that?

Why is it that the process of formalizing, realizing, enacting something, even in a basic, beginner form, can so kill it?

I love stories, whether to my ears, from my mouth, or out of my fingertips in this blog, so why do they suddenly seem so alien to me now that I've attended an actual writing conference?

The staff at the Book Passage Travel Writers and Photographers Conference was so accessible, so amiable...and yet the equation still came though.

1. Americans don't read.
2. Americans don't travel.
   Ergo:
3. Americans sure as hell don't read about travel.

But F that, I want to do it anyway. So why does it feel like my word-brain has been anaesthetized and sent home for summer vacation?

There have just been so many distractions and other things that needed doing over the past two weeks! Excuse.

That dog guided me around the out-of-the-way temple in
Bagan. Too bad he's not here to guide me around my head.

The idyllic peace of a Portland summer afternoon is thick comfort and succulent ease! Excuse.

I'm intimidated by the quality of writing of others and fear that I have nothing worthwhile to say. Truth.

So? Start here. Uncork the brain and let the constipated sentences grind their way out.

Some of you might be shifting uncomfortable in your seats at that one. That makes me feel better already.

So here I am on the back porch, a cup of mediocre iced tea close at hand and far too many tortilla chips already eaten, going to start because what the hell, why not?