I finished stoning my costume—which means I’m back and it’s time for tea. I finally realized why I’m feeling so stuck: I’m not a writer anymore. And that’s just a small part of it. I don’t create. I haven’t in years; I don’t write (for ABC, for potential publication, and more importantly, for self). I don’t paint, draw, collage—fuck. I don’t even take pride in putting together outfits anymore. I don’t read, not really, actually (the occasional op-ed piece or audiobook doesn’t count). I don’t binge-research random topics I have the sudden urge to learn about. My MO, as early as I can remember, has always been to read, analyze, and react. I have the boxes of notebooks to prove it: I’m in my parents’ home, flipping through the boxes of notebooks I have on everything, from types of foxes and gemstones to meanings of crystals to the Cultural Revolution and thoughts on the Patriot Act.) I consumed tirelessly and created endlessly. And now, the closest I come to it is writing copy. Which I love, don’t get me wrong: Finding what makes people’s hearts flutter and creating the perfect message to trigger it is an art form, but it’s not from the soul. Am…