YES, ANOTHER WRITER ironically writing about writer’s block. *Warning – No advice is contained in this post. Zero.
I looked in the yellow pages and there was nobody who could come and fix it. In a way it doesn’t need to be fixed. It’s presence is temporary every time. Is it a drought or a blockage, running dry or clogged? Every creative mind experiences it and for each of us it is different in nature. All we want to know, is when will it leave?
Does writer’s block even really exist? I could sit for three hours and write a story – that is undeniable. I know it would be torturous, the ideas linking sentences and words together would not come easily or flow. So I could write. True. But the quality would be lacking. When the creative aspect vacates, there is no whole in a story, only lonely parts with little cohesion. I hate writing a subpar story. Sometimes in the ashes of it there are embers which can be nurtured and raised into flames. That in itself is not a waste of effort, and generally any writing is better than no writing, even if it is just to trick the brain into thinking that it is still capable of what came easily only days ago.
I often find writer’s block accompanies readers block in a mutual distaste for anything with words, and during that spell I’m like a horse shying at a jump, planting my hooves into the dirt just before it, refusing to clear the obstacle. There is generally no clear reason for avoiding words although this time is an exception, there are a few things I can pinpoint which seem to have drained my creativity. Ultimately it seems slightly pathetic. To be sat at a computer or with a notebook in hand and find nothing is forthcoming. It isn’t difficult. We write from a young age. We type like it’s second nature. The execution or technical ability isn’t the issue. Even if tinged with lethargy, the process isn’t like a bodybuilder going to the gym and failing to lift weights. Effort isn’t what’s missing and when the ephemeral creativity goes AWOL, it feels like a hopeless situation, as if some part of me has been lost, my ideas lost to a ghost like state that might return today or days from now.
Every time a writer whinges about writer’s block we understand. Artists get it across the spectrum. And it always seems self indulgent, no one really cares, we’ve all been there and returned. Well, either way, even if I am the only one who reads what I just wrote, it felt good to paint the screen with words, the equivalent of screaming on a mountain top. Maybe you can relate, I hope you can’t right now and the words are rolling how they should.