Writer’s Block is one of those things that most people think can happen to anybody. Anybody of course but yourself.
I hadn’t really thought much about the causes of the disconnect between my storyteller and my word processor but I’ve had a lot of time to wander my befuddled brain as of late. The cold weather has set in, and in what has become a winter tradition for more than a decade now my muscles and joints have begun their cold weather protests.
As such, I often end up bedridden for days at a time. While having Fibromyalgia is often physically limiting, when you are stuck with nothing but your mind, ideas begin to brew.
The stories in my head never stopped telling themselves, I just couldn’t remember how to capture them anymore. Isn’t that odd? Writers block is a most appropriate name. It really does feel like a block of lead has rolled itself over the entrance to the space where stories once danced.
I tried, but whatever it was that used to compel me to capture thoughts on paper had left me. My muse just wandered off one day leaving me with nothing but…
Blank paper. Words. Wrong words. Words no work. Where words go? Sad. No. More. Good. Words.
This. No. Good.
Though I sat in front of a computer to write as often as possible, so few words found their way out. Those that did were perhaps best left wherever they came from. I wrote them anyhow. I hit save. But there was no real… life to any of it.
Then, a few days ago, I was sitting there trying to hear the story voice. Doing my very best to drown out those other… things… that threatened to suffocate the old voice. There was all of this static in the background, what the hell was that awful noise?
I’ve been trying all this time to drown everything else out so I could hear the story voice, but had I ever taken time to listen to what that noise was. It was interesting to say the least.
There was a time when all that I wanted to do was write. I HAD to write. It wasn’t about perfection, or financial reward, or the approval of this one or that. No. It was for me, and only for me, and that was when I loved writing.
It was only when people started wanting to know where the money was, or the sales numbers, or the frills and perks that the passion left me. Even more, I started thinking that success might lead to approval from certain forces in my life.
They didn’t even read it.
People that I actually dedicated the book to did not even read it. If they have ever seen the movie, they haven’t mentioned it. The money never came, there was nothing there for them… and so, they wandered off.
And that is what those noises in my head were trying to get through to me. Reminding me that I killed the computer that had all of the originals on it. Reminding me of the three years of hell it took to write and publish it. Reminding me of the outright rejection I faced. Reminding me of all I lost just to fail last time. Reminding me of just how deeply failure burns.
Do you REALLY want to go through that again? REALLY? Just so another handful of people might read it? REALLY?
Oh, Gods help me I do. I can’t f’n believe it, but I do.
I have no idea why. I have nothing to show for it now, and might end up with even less than that when I am done. Sometimes we have to do things that don’t make any sense.
That is what I was missing.
The desire to write just for the sake of writing. I let people, and circumstances, and life take that passion from me. I allowed their focus to become my focus, and I let their fear of failure redefine my own life.
This. No. Good.
So, in short I’ve been writing more. Slow and clumsy though they may be, the stories are dancing again.
This. Is. Good.