I’m currently staring at this bright white screen, for almost a week now might I add, drawing a complete blank. The cursor blinks before my eyes like a ticking time bomb, and I can almost hear its screams and constant ticks, begging me to dismantle the wire and cease the time. A thousand words swim across my mind in hopes to be written, memories and thoughts filling up its crevices in piercing thunders as I struggle to focus in the storm. I’m attempting to get myself in the mood, to become entranced in writing a prose, listening to jazzy blues through earphones as raindrops echo in the room.
I’ve been writing since I was a little girl. I’ve written in journals and diaries for the sake of my emotions, needing to reflect and reveal all of which I felt so that I could understand myself, so that I could be understood. Because writing had such an impact in the expression of my childhood, I’ve buried myself in books. I would read until my eyes blurred, become completely entranced and invested in a world that wasn’t my own, delved myself in a character’s story that I couldn’t remember my own existence and the reality of my world. It wasn’t until sixth grade that I began creating a world for myself, letting my imagination come to life in the back of several notebooks and hidden notepads on the computer.
It amazes me, to this day, of our creative process. It amazes me how our minds embellish a different kind of reality, one that is real within cream-colored pages and tightly bounded spines, stored on shelves for enjoyment.
It’s difficult, however— and I hope many other writers, artists, and creators alike can relate— when you have so much to say but struggle to say it. A writer’s block is what it’s called, and I’ve had so many I should know how to fix it.
But then you scroll through social media hoping for better news, check your phone to see you have no new notifications, and work until your voice is sore because all the Karens think they are entitled to getting 48 cents back from whatever purchase they made two years ago. And as you dream about vampires, snow, dinner parties, and random kind, hot men that don’t seem to exist in 2020 (no, I’m not bitter, you are), you would think this writer’s block has got nothing on you.
I mean I’ve been writing, yes, but there’s a part of me that feels I have lost my touch. There’s still a knot back there, and I can feel it in my bones, feel it gnaw at my sides, tighten my shoulders even. It’s craving something, possibly a certain type of inspiration, or a sort of narrative that’s waiting to be told.
Besides me particularly writing about writing, if there are any other ways to get out of this writer’s block, I would love some advice.
And if you are going through a writer’s block, or have these bizarre, unexplainable dreams, or deal with Karens on a day-to-day basis which makes you lie awake at night wishing you could just shake their shoulders until their head falls off, I would love to let you know that you are definitely not alone.