Writing is funny. It’s 4pm on a sunny day, the birds are chirping, the squirrels are squeaking, the breeze the smoothest and freshest it’s ever been. It feels as if the universe has finally responded to my supplications and given me the perfect conditions for the artist burning inside my body to awaken and flood the world with his creations. The texture of the piece of paper, rough as the bark, smooth as the grass, once like the tree that gently holds my back and shelters me from the sun. Now it’s just a matter of grabbing the pen and starting my creation. Except it’s the fourth time I have been under this damn tree, and all that I can think about is my chronic incapability of getting a sentence out of my brain.
People call this “creative block” but it’s not just a block. It’s a brick, a wall, the Great Wall of China itself, and it’s the height of a skyscraper, fully visible from space. Gather, people, gather. Here lies the densest of them all, do not approach, however, for your mind may become just as empty of an echo chamber. Is it true there is a prize for whoever accumulates the most unproductive hours? Because if that is the case, I think I may be winning.
I have not kept this predicament to myself. Talking to my friends and colleagues about this, I was actually able to get a lot of very helpful advice, as they also have passed through this. It is very comforting to see how we are not alone.. Oh, if only it were true, that talking to your dear ones would solve all of your problems, and my due dates were just as understanding.
Maybe I just need something to inspire myself. What if I climbed a very high building and wrote about the birds? “Flappily flaps the flapping wings of the flappy bird, it hits a glass window…” I don’t think it has enough impact, to be honest. Or I could go to a very warmly lit place with a soft, soft sofa and truly feel like a writer in their natural habitat, reflecting upon the “inevitable social dilemma between protesting by not giving a meal tip because the employer should give the waiter that share of their salary in the first place, or conforming to society’s current state and tipping anyway.” Both options hurt the worker. What a life. Or maybe I could lock myself into a very, very empty room, alone, only with my own thoughts. “What a horrible idea.”
No matter what I do, no matter where I go, this constant incapability of writing anything does not go away. I remember when I was able to write. The words flew like a constant river, placing themselves onto the paper, carrying meaning, nuance, making the reader invested in this world full of intricacies and things to discover. Now I’m left with crumbs, remains, a shade of what once was. What is the point of life if you can’t express? I don’t have time to invest in something like music or dancing, I never loved those kinds of things. What I love is right here, in this pen and paper, intrinsic to my being. If I can’t do this, then I can’t be.
You know what? I don’t give two damns about writing perfectly. Is my writing shit at the moment? Awesome, I will embrace the shit. I will let it stink and rot as much as it wants to. Let it be called bad, unappealing, unrelatable, poor, boring. The writing is mine. I can do whatever I want with it, and if someone doesn’t like it, it’s their own fucking problem.