I kicked that writer's block's butt!
I wonder why it happens, though. One minute you are full of ideas, words cannot wait to burst out from under your fingers, and then you are just... unable to muster a single readable phrase. Why, oh gods old and new, why are we writers so dependent on this particular whimsy of our mental structure!?
Right now, I am just stringing words like pearls in this clumsy necklace of a blog post. I decided to write it because I have just finished a subchapter of The True Story of the Vortex - the Transcendence Files. It is probably not the most brilliant bit of my writing, but it is writing.
I am writing.
Well, I myself had reasons for this dry spell. I had an overdose of writing this summer, and this is a way of my karma to pay me back for the cocky assumption that I was generally unable to shut up. And I don't have any cats to write novels about, although I will have to get one, I guess, for my Cute Cat Conspiracy upcoming series. Wow, that was cynical. Shall we write this off as a joke? Because if you cannot joke, you are not a writer.
I, however, am writing, because not doing it was killing me slowly. To me, the blank page syndrome is as bad as a disease. It is like blindness for an artist, like dyslexia for a public speaker, like numbness for a singer.
Yet I have broken this spell. Today, I felt the urge of sitting myself down in front of a blank page and fill it with words. All right, they are not particularly clever, they do not paint any beautiful pictures - they are just the struggle of a soul that was drowning in silence for two long months...
Now it speaks. Not of its secrets. Of its joy. The joy of having finally found its voice.
Please, fellow writers, be welcome to share your struggles with writer's block in comments.
Sincerely yours,
Anastasia
I wonder why it happens, though. One minute you are full of ideas, words cannot wait to burst out from under your fingers, and then you are just... unable to muster a single readable phrase. Why, oh gods old and new, why are we writers so dependent on this particular whimsy of our mental structure!?
Right now, I am just stringing words like pearls in this clumsy necklace of a blog post. I decided to write it because I have just finished a subchapter of The True Story of the Vortex - the Transcendence Files. It is probably not the most brilliant bit of my writing, but it is writing.
I am writing.
Well, I myself had reasons for this dry spell. I had an overdose of writing this summer, and this is a way of my karma to pay me back for the cocky assumption that I was generally unable to shut up. And I don't have any cats to write novels about, although I will have to get one, I guess, for my Cute Cat Conspiracy upcoming series. Wow, that was cynical. Shall we write this off as a joke? Because if you cannot joke, you are not a writer.
I, however, am writing, because not doing it was killing me slowly. To me, the blank page syndrome is as bad as a disease. It is like blindness for an artist, like dyslexia for a public speaker, like numbness for a singer.
Yet I have broken this spell. Today, I felt the urge of sitting myself down in front of a blank page and fill it with words. All right, they are not particularly clever, they do not paint any beautiful pictures - they are just the struggle of a soul that was drowning in silence for two long months...
Now it speaks. Not of its secrets. Of its joy. The joy of having finally found its voice.
Please, fellow writers, be welcome to share your struggles with writer's block in comments.
Sincerely yours,
Anastasia
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