I'm having a bit of an issue. By that I mean I'm having a wildly frustrating experience that's producing a lot of pacing, listening to the dark corners of Spotify, and a general lack of order in my curls. Writer's block has hit me good and hard.
Yet here I am, typing away, because I'm so sick of staring at my computer screen doing nothing I've decided to shut everything down and type. Nothing more. No thinking about how to frame the next sentence, no worrying about word choice and vocabulary, no writing about my intended topic (my weekend trip to the Salt River), and definitely no wondering about the productive things I'm missing out on by writing this. Nope. I'm just letting the words flow. And would you look at that, it's working. Two paragraphs down.
Writer's block is not a new phenomena in my family. I come from a long line of poets, songwriters, novelists, and English majors. My mother writes in her journal every night. My dad types away about history and the moral/legal issues surrounding fighting a mine. My cousin performs his songs at a local bar. My Grandpa, before he was a "was" made a living from poetry, painting, and teaching others how to art. And in that intergenerational, interfamilial mushpot of words there are sure to be a few wooden blocks thrown in the mix. Maybe I should be proud of continuing on in the long line of writers bogged down by our own minds.
For now I'll keep writing. Laziness + a mounting pile of homework = blog posts that are incredibly basic and/or super rambly (much like this one right here!) So I could either write a post that involves some number of ways to do some random thing or I could go full steam ahead on this train of thought post and see where it leads me (guess which one I chose. Go on, I'll wait). I'll try and stick to this lovely topic of not being able to write because it seems to be going well so far.
I'd forgot what a horrible experience writer's block is because the last time this happened to me I was in middle school rewriting whatever fantasy novel I'd been reading that week. Basically I ran out of barely original ideas that failed at separating my pathetic attempts at new creations from the creations other authors who actually put in the hard work of coming up with new, brilliant, entertaining ideas for the rest of us plebs to enjoy (good lord that sentence was a mouthful). I was a bit of a horror, but I had fun with it and it led me here, to semi coherent thoughts all on my own. I'm grateful to my book loving, androgynous, pre-pubescent self. I'm genuinely curious about what causes people to become so entrenched in their own thoughts they can't put words down on paper. The human mind is so backwards sometimes. I'd assume the one thing it could do is think without having to be tricked into the action by loosening up an entire writing style. Before I got into this frame of mind I was typing out and then deleting the same paragraph over and over again. Not a fun experience.
Well, I think it's time I wrap this post up. Thank goodness the rest of it is such a mess that I don't have to bother writing a solid conclusion (though let's be honest, when do I ever?)