First, I was too busy packing and moving to sit down and write. Now, I just don't really feel like it. Most of my characters and stories are borne from the dark and dirty alley ways tunneling through my imagination and their homes are being destroyed as we speak. The street-sweeper of happiness is washing the dark down the storm drains and that infernal ball of fire in the sky is burning their eyes. It is difficult to write a passage about a monster pulling a man's esophagus out through his stomach when your brain is petting puppies. I'm sure the Lenny between my ears will pet too hard and some darkness will come back, but for right now, peace is a stumbling block.
Well, maybe you should write about those puppies. If you write long enough they may get sucked into the street sweepers brushes, thrown into the sewers and come out with some really weird power that steals the breath from people as they use their cuteness as a ruse.
Try to enter your character's heads, see the story from their point of view instead of your own. Visualise. Role-play if necessary.
I talked about this with my bandmates once, and we all agreed that when you're happy, it's more difficult to produce new material if you're used to vent into your art. When there's nothing to vent, you either need to find some or figure out a new source for material. Misery is my muse.
