So, this is Writer’s Block—Ugly

Perhaps the way I defined this curse mislead me, and until now I thought I couldn’t get writer’s block. I had always envisioned a writer scooting their chair up to a desk; fingers cracked and tugged on, a computer flashing to life, then the writer freezes, hovering above the keyboard, blank stare, hollow inside.

Sometimes it’s this way. I can usually combat this nuisance by reading other people’s work and critiquing it, or switching up which project I attack. At times blogging about my personal life is more natural than conjuring up zombie dilemmas or pulling short stories out of thin air.

More often it’s about getting caught up on words so nothing comes out. A bubble blows up inside me, full of emptiness. Coating this mass is the story, I know where it needs to go, but the text doesn’t materialize. I’ve started several short stories this week only to get a few hundred words down before I abandon them. I have files with crap titles followed by the word “unfinished.” The idea being I’ll go back to them.

Often I write a story at the moment it comes to me, almost like a dream or premonition. I have to write immediately or else the lust to do so wains. I’m not sure I’ll ever go back to the two most recent stories. One involved a little girl who found a homeless community when she was lost in the woods, and the other is about three siblings who live different lives but keep coming back to each other for support.

I would rather read than write—this is the first notion that writer’s block is finding a cozy, sweet spot in my consciousness. It affects my sleep, I lack the desire to see friends, I think I’m the worst writer in the world and I should pick another hobby. That word also spits at me, hobby, like what I do isn’t work.

Babble, babble, ramble, ramble. I can’t even figure out how to end a blog post. I have no words of wisdom to offer. Everyone, including those that don’t write, endures something like this. I also lack motivation in other aspects of my life. I don’t want to paint my bedroom, clean the basement, or make an overdue eye doctor appointment.

Is winter bringing me down? Is this a phase? Pressures out of my control bear down on me, causing me to withdraw?

It’s all of these things.

This too shall pass.

So I tell myself.

Photo by Lubo Minar on Unsplash