When was the last time you experienced writer’s block? What do you think brought it about — and how did you dig your way out of it?
Ha. Ha. It ain’t no party, this writer’s block thing. I don’t suppose whining about it is productive, either, but there’s something to be said for sharing the angst with other writers. Thus the party, right?
I’ll bring the whine.
This round of blockage is courtesy of too many things on my plate, both emotional and long lists of tasks. My father’s recent illness and death, a huge and on-going de-cluttering project (how in the world have we accumulated so much stuff?), demands at the office. It weighs down the creative soul. Or maybe I’m just afraid of what might come out of the pen, so I put it down.
The solution is to write anyway. At least that’s what my writer-friends tell me.
Write. Even if it’s crap. It’s still writing, and then maybe something good will come of it. I’m hopeful, anyway.
I’m still blocked. I’m still writing. And I’m still hopeful.
I have to write a speech. It has me in knots, not because I’m afraid of speeches, but because every time I sit in front of the computer or journal or notebook or pile of scrap paper, or, for heaven’s sake, a napkin, I get a brain cloud.
It’s pretty annoying, as folks are starting to ask what I’m going to say. I don’t think it’ll fly if I respond with, “Oh, I’ll let the Spirit move me when I get up to the podium.”
Ha. I could do it, too. Get up there and just talk, I mean. That doesn’t scare me nearly as much as having to prepare a speech. I don’t even get a teleprompter. It seems to work for some people. But then again, I’m not running for public office.
What I most want to do is avoid the helpful people…people I’d no more allow to put words in my mouth than cut my bangs. They are everywhere. And they scare me. Ha!
Not really. I’m mostly amused, by them, my predicament, the fact that ordinarily I never shut up and now I need to dig for words.
I think it’s a good thing. I feel like I’ve forgotten how to write. I’ve been dwelling in the underbelly of the writer’s world these past many months — writing very dry, very boring, very technical reports. Stephen King would have a thing or three to say about my overuse of adverbs. I’ve replaced poetry with formula –replaced the beauty of a well-turned phrase with passive voice so as not to offend.
I need to find my writer’s heart, and I better find it quick. The clock is ticking.