There is no cream for that, I checked.
I have a scorching case of writer’s block. Don’t worry, I don’t think it is contagious.
I have been afflicted with this condition for longer than I’d like to admit. *whispers*, “y-e-a-r-s.”
Alas, there is no strange smelly new-age salve I can purchase at Whole Paycheck to soothe my ailment. I could turn to booze and pills, but come on, how trite is that? I’m too much of a control freak to go down that rabbit hole.
It wasn’t until I came across some old notes on book ideas when it struck me just how long it had been since I really wrote for me, for pleasure. For years, it was something I prided myself on and did nearly every day. I was good at it until, slowly but surely, my inspiration withered and my passion waned. This happened gradual enough that I didn’t realize what had happened until it was at a crippling level of nada. My pen had run dry.
I neglected my talents further by taking it for granted, assuming I could just pick it back up later without consequences. How to get back on track?
Thankfully, Wikipedia has a page outlining what it [writer’s block] is, what the cause might be, and suggests ways I can remedy this persistent problem pestering my long-lost propensity for prose. I’m sure, like anything on the internet, it’s an accurate source.
I already have a WebMD degree and use it each time I question the severity and wetness of a cough. I often ponder, “Is it a cancer-y cough or just something one of the kids brought home from school (for the 6th time this year)?” They [my Piglets] are a couple of carrier monkeys after all.
But I digress … writer’s block. Per the aforementioned online authority, I am showing all of the traditional symptoms: an inability to be creative, long, lonely hours lamenting at my keyboard, abashed by the white glow emanating off my blank Microsoft Word screen, and spending way too much time in denial as I binge Netflix and argue about glaring plot holes.
I considered adopting a polydactyl cat. But I don’t want to go down a boozing, womanizing (err whatever the man version of that is) path in order to tap into my writing superpower.
I’m a prolific reader; reading more now than when I was younger. My to-read list could easily be featured on ‘Hoarders’, so I switched to Kindle content. And, like any good pretentious belletristic purist, I regularly annoy my movie-watching loved ones with phrases like, “The book was so much better.”
I do freelance work, but it is typically research-heavy and not something I would deem as creative. Writing about “payer-provider convergence” doesn’t exactly feed my soul, but it does work the same otherwise atrophied muscle.
But enough is enough. I need to find my appetite for writing again, for me, for pleasure. I know, it sounds very eat, pray, love when I say it out loud.
I’ve rationalized stress is likely the biggest culprit. Without going into too much detail here, the last year has been the most stressful to date. I lost the most, gained the most, and managed to come out the other side happier and healthier for it. It was an emotionally awful ordeal, but worth it in the end. The only way out is through, right? Finally cutting the dysfunctional cycle on 20+ years of “abuse” at the hands of mentally ill or unstable relatives has left me, well, passionless.
A family should unconditionally care and build a person up, not try to tear them down. I’d write more about it, but I don’t need to viscerally relive the frustrations, double-standards, gaslighting, smear campaigns, lies and threats I suffered through. Narcissists with their entitled, selfish mindsets and games, are incapable of feeling remorse and will outright deny or lie their way out of any wrongdoing.
Best to heal, grow and move on, right? Yeah, it’s a hint darker than I thought I would go with this post, but it is what it is. And honestly, I’d rather write about something clever or more interesting.
So, in an effort to force myself to write more, I’ve decided I may just blog here from time to time. I’ve been accepted into a couple of writing groups on Medium and will take a stab at weekly writing challenges.
I will eventually tire of feeling sorry for myself after I lick my writer’s block wounds for a while and hopefully rediscover my inspiration. If anyone has any good suggestions on how to do that [sparking my writing inspiration], I’m all ears.