Ohmygod, writer’s block.
I’ve been sitting at my desk for twenty minutes, resting my chin on my coffee cup (back slumped in atrocious posture), breathing in the familiar roasty smell of java (taken black, always black), trying to find words to put out into the ether. This is my routine every morning.
Nothing comes. I eventually give up, go make my bed, and get on with my day.
Today I fight a little harder. I glance around my desk (as best as I can without moving my chin, because the warm steam from my coffee is comforting), trying to think. I used to have so many ideas! I used to be so full of cleverness and thoughtfulness and humor! Now I’m looking at my stapler wondering if I can simply describe it and call that good enough.
It’s black. And green. With a little silver. EVERYBODY GIVE IT UP FOR THE BEST BLOG POST EVER.
Ohmygod, writer’s block. It’s tragic.
It’s been months since I’ve had a thought that felt original. The world is a mess. The world is beautiful. And so many people are typing out their thoughts about this beautiful, messy world. I can’t seem to stitch three words together about it. I feel, to be sure. I feel sad, and awed, and frightened, and hopeful. We, as humanity, are lost; and yet, all hope is not lost.
I take a sip of my coffee. Ohmygod, writer’s block.
My kids are bustling downstairs, doing their chores and looking forward to their day. We’ll pop by and see their dad at work. We’ll deliver a freshly baked pecan pie to their papa. We’ll crash indoors through the hottest part of the day. We’ll go the pool in the late afternoon, and tonight we’ll celebrate the solstice by staying up as late as we want, reveling in the longest day under a full moon. We will be loud and wild and it will be a day to keep.
But in the back of my head, the whispers will be there: Writer’s block, writer’s block. I’m becoming paranoid.
Jesse’s story is nudging me away from the mesmerizing void of writer’s block (once you’ve encountered the block it will keep you in its thrall until your force your way back out), and I’m so grateful for her. But my confidence is shaken. Words have never come as easy to me as they do other writers I know (“The stories just tumble out of my brain!” they shout with glee. “If I don’t write it down the characters pester me until I do!”)–my stories require a lot of interior excavation, and even when I find what I’m looking for it doesn’t exactly cooperate. What if I don’t have what it takes anymore? What if I never did in the first place? What if I never catch up with my peers?
Well, hello there, fear. Nice to see you, pride. Blarg.
I just swallowed my last gulp of coffee. It’s time to get on with my day. Looks like I found words to put out into the ether after all, and although they maybe weren’t eloquent or original, at least they were honest.
Hm. Honesty. The cure for writer’s block? Maybe.
We shall see.
Loads of love,