I copied out some of Wordsworth's Prelude today, and this is what he told me. Kind of sums up that oh-so-familiar feeling of longing to write but not being able to get anything worthwhile onto the paper, don't you think?

I spare to tell of what ensued, the life

In common things—the endless store of things,

Rare, or at least so seeming, every day

Found all about me in one neighborhood—

The self-congratulation, and, from morn

To night, unbroken cheerfulness serene.

But speedily an earnest longing rose

To brace myself to some determined aim,

Reading or thinking; either to lay up

New stores, or rescue from decay the old

By timely interference: and therewith

Came hopes still higher, that with outward life

I might endue some airy phantasies

That had been floating loose about for years,

And to such beings temperately deal forth

The many feelings that oppressed my heart.

That hope hath been discouraged; welcome light

Dawns from the east, but dawns to disappear

And mock me with a sky that ripens not

Into a steady morning: if my mind,

Remembering the bold promise of the past,

Would gladly grapple with some noble theme,

Vain is her wish; where’er she turns she finds

Impediments from day to day renewed.