It’s not really writers block, it’s more writer’s recession.
I swear to all that is holy, I will put out 600 words today, or I will sleep on he floor tonight.I won’t sleep on the floor, but I will roundly chastise myself in front of friends and family.They always find it amusing, and I do want to make them happy during the holidays. It’s like a toasty sarcastic hug I give them once a week. I have a warm heart.
Warm like a bonfire. I smell good, but if you sit too close I may just get in your face and annoy the hell out of you.
OK, back to writing. I can’t quite seem to wrap my head around what is wrong this week. It’s been an emotional week, with Christmas and the world’s happenings tugging at me, but that usually makes writing a breeze. I am nothing if not an emotional writer.
What does that mean? I’m nothing if not……
We all say it. How in the hell can we be nothing? What if we could be nothing? What if we could, at will, diffuse into the mist? I could become a form of human vapor. That would be awesome. Well, except during a dry hot August afternoon. Then you would evaporate. That sounds painful.
I have been writing in one form or another since I was in grade school. I wrote my first short story in 4th grade. It was a Halloween story about a happy witch who learned some sort of lesson. My mother kept it for years, but it’s long gone. It was published in the local newspaper, I’m sure under the “Cute Things Kids Say” section.
And they do say cute things.
My friend Sasha’s son Zach is the most amazing kid for that. He just started preschool and we taught him his first Knock-Knock joke. I spoiled him by giving him cups of whipped cream, which he called “special ice cream”. He knows all the words to “Paradise City” and “We will Rock You”. He’s freakin’ adorable.
And he could probably write more words than I have today, and it would make just
AS MUCH SENSE!
Writing has always given me solace, a place for peace and
Oh hell, spelling a bitch for wrtiers.
Did you see what I did there. I misspelled writers. It’s funny because I claim to be a writer.
Humor. The wall you hide behind when you don’t think you have anything important to share.
The point is, writing is a wonderful, painful addiction A thesaurus soaked monkey that rides on the back of people who would rather sit in front of a keyboard than go out to dinner. A crack laden whore who would rather bask in the glow of a computer screen, than soak in the street on a darkly light corner.
I went too far. Writers do that. We push the boundaries, we cross the line, erase it, and draw a new one to cross over. If we grow as writers, we learn how to write about ourselves without saying our own names. We share our experiences, without saying’ “I did that, or I am that.” That, perhaps, is the most difficult thing I have learned as a writer.
I have been published, and had some glory. I’ve even been paid a few times, but I have discovered a few truths.
It’s what Sir. Lawrence Olivier once said about acting. When he was asked why he was in a particularly low brow movie, he responded “I take just about every job I’m offered. After all, how can I claim to be an actor, if I don’t act.”
I feel that way about writing.
So I write, here, in notebooks, or on the back of napkins; wherever I can.
I am a writer.
And someday I will time-travel as vapor on the back of a monkey.