It’s been a while since I’ve posted something. I’ve blamed it on having a new job, but the truth is I have a block. I have about six unfinished entries sitting in my drafts that I haven’t made much headway on. I haven’t made any headway on my fiction either. So I finally figured I’d write about what it’s like to not be able to write.
For one thing, it’s frustrating. Writing of any kind, fiction or non-fiction, brings me fulfillment. I derive actual pleasure from typing down my thoughts, and I have a kind of confidence I don’t ever have when speaking. In writing, I can let everything come out from my brain with no filter and only later edit out extra bits and nonsense. If I try that with speaking, I end up embarrassed or worse. Sometimes I even wonder about how annoying it must be to listen to me talk, since my speech is so cut up and sliced and maimed. I try to edit what I say as I say it, worrying I’ll offend or challenge or misstep. But my tongue muscles aren’t fast enough to keep up with my mental processes. As though there’s some disconnect. So instead of eloquence, my mouth dribbles ums and ers. I get lost in between thoughts and many sentences end up tossed over my shoulder as I start new ones. I’m really, really surprised anyone listens to me for any length of time.
But my fingers are swift and fly across a keyboard like hummingbirds looking for nectar, bouncing from flower to flower without a thought about direction or goal. Other than the goal of that nectar, the fulfillment and joy that comes from expressing my ideas on paper or screen. So writer’s block is like a hunger from being deprived that fulfillment. I feel emotionally drained, intellectually emaciated, and at a literal loss for words.
I feel a little better now.