More Musings on (Not) Writing

This post may not have a point to it, but that’s the point.

I’ve been writing since I was a kid. Like many kids, I wrote stories — sometimes for school, sometimes just to amuse my siblings or to get something off my chest about them that I couldn’t express directly because they were older and bigger, and I was small, little, younger, less powerful.

After we got a new piano in our house, the nine-year-old I was at the time wrote a little girl-writing-cartoonfour-line story in landscape format using red marker on a piece of tablet paper about how my big brother was always “playing on” the piano and leaving no time for anybody else to play it, and how I “can’t stand him” because of it.

This must have been a particularly prolific writing period for me, because around the same time, I won a third-grade contest for a short poem I wrote about what I loved most about going to elementary school — stopping at the candy store on the way to school every morning to stock up on the requisite sugar needs for the day.

I wrote because I was driven by a feeling I desperately needed to express, an assignment I had to finish, or some intangible reward, like a satisfying reaction from a sibling.  AKA the payoff.

Eventually, as every writer does, I eventually struggled with what is commonly known as writer’s block — theno-ideas-writer ongoing mythical experience of simply being otherwise unable to put pen to paper, at least with any viable output.

Lately, I’m hearing that there is no such thing as writer’s block.  That’s something I can really get my head around. That’s something I want to believe.  That is something I hope is true.

Whether there is or isn’t such a thing as writer’s block, however, I see many parallels between that (writing, or finishing a piece of writing) and something I struggle with far less (exercise, or finishing a workout, as I wrote about here).

So I’m getting to the point of this NO POINT post.

I’m blocked.  This visual (below) is what it feels like, and often this goes on for hours, days, weeks, I daresay even months or years.

That’s all I have to say.  I am being called to procrastinate.

About Traveler

"For my part, I travel not to go anywhere, but to go.”
This entry was posted in Block, Craft, Non-travel, Personal, Writing. Bookmark the permalink.

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