Wherein introspection is depressing...

Once upon a time, I used to write.
Lately, I haven't been doing that.
Oh, I've put metaphorical pen to paper, and jotted down ideas here and there, but overall I haven't 'written' anything.
My wordbanks seem permanently depleted.
I sit down at the keyboard and nothing flows.
Nothing.
The screen remains unsullied.
Of course, all of this only refers to fiction. I can natter on in this journal about any old thing, and I frequently do.
It's just, today, the name of my journal struck me as odd.
Melworks.
MEL's works.
That's what the name comes from.
Not the snack cakes.
And I'm not really living up to it, am I?
Crap.