Writer’s Block

Well, here we are again. Yet another day where I’ve set out to do what I promised myself I would, and put out a blog entry a week, but when I sit down and put my fingers to the keys, nothing comes out. I really do wish this wouldn’t happen to me so often. It’s deeply embarrassing for someone who prides himself so entirely on the use of words to be so publicly without them. Yet here I sit.

I never really know how to deal with writer’s block. No amount of trying to force it seems to work. It always seems like the best possible solution is just to do something else instead, but in this case, that’s a slippery slope. I know that if I let it go for too long, I’ll never write here again, and that’s the last thing in the world I want, so I wind up just sitting here, trying to force it. It’s frustrating and painful.

Every week, I just find myself hoping that some sort of inspiration strikes and that it will be enough to carry me through an entire blog entry worth reading. Often it does. Lately, however, I feel as if the well has gone dry. This isn’t uncommon for me. My creativity and ability to form and express coherent thoughts of any worth seem to cycle just as frequently as do my moods.

At this point, I’ve told stories of the everyday trials and tribulations that have come with my diagnosis. I’ve told intimate details of the worst parts of my illness. I’ve told humorous anecdotes about my childhood and adulthood alike. I’ve discussed my need for fiction in general and my adoration of certain pieces of it in specific. I’m in a position where I feel that there is very little left to share. 

Undoubtedly, this is an illusion. In a week, or two, I’ll sit down here to type, and some wonderfully inspiring thing will occur to me, and I’ll write for hours on a subject that wouldn’t carry most people ten minutes. I’ll blather on and on, rambling incessantly about… I dunno, Minecraft or something?

Writing often seems to me to be accidental. I attempt to carry a thought from one place to another when the container breaks and I spill the words all over a keyboard, mixing with other stray thoughts until I have somehow created a poem or a story or a blog entry. I just can’t seem to do it on command.

This has always been my greatest obstacle when it comes to writing. I can never really decide when, or where, or how my word spills happen. I’ll just wake up one day with no intention to write at all, and boom, write pages and pages. On the other end of the spectrum, when I want to write, nothing happens. The very act of attempting to write often seems to be the one surefire way I have to stop myself from doing so.

In any case, I’ll be back here next week, plugging away until I have something to throw up onto the site, whether it’s readable or not. I am going to fulfil the obligation I have both to myself and my sometime readers whether I have anything worthwhile to say or not.


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