Writer's Block

Struggling to sit still and write.
I’ve been blocked for a while now. 

I find this issue difficult to accept because I never used to have trouble concentrating on something I love to do.  Granted, I needed to be in the proper mood to sit still long enough to put my thoughts to paper, but when I had an idea to narrate, the words flowed through my pen with ease.

It was almost as if I had a classic Greek Muse; whispering tales of desperate situations in my ear.  I would act as her ghost writer – the flesh and blood vessel for her creative spirit.

                  I have missed my muse.  My nights have been empty without her.
                Her charismatic ways of inspiration have been absent from my mind.
                I miss her.  I miss the ways she’d tingle me with visions of journeys never thought of.
                                …or of people who did not exist.
                I miss the stories she would tell me, and then invite me to make them my own.

                “Come with me,” She would say, “Come and SEE through my eyes.”
                                And I would.

                I would suckle her visions just as they were my first taste of milk
                                ~ sweet warmth, with the sour after effect ~
                And when the source is taken away too soon, or if I've over-indulged in the goodness,
                                I then wind up with a tummy ache.

Time ticks; a metronome in my brain that is constantly cluck-cluck-clucking.  I wait for her.  And she still avoids my company.  The paper in front of me remains blank.

I recently began hanging out with a Buddhist.  I hypothesized that if I spent more time contemplating the meaning of life, that maybe it would inspire me to discover something I could write about.  I listened to him speak of how energy is connected, and how we all share memories, as we all share regurgitated energy… and still – I’m blank.  I wondered if that meant that he was blank too.

                  Blinded beings are we in life.
                Spirits enlightened in death.
                The key is to find the bridge so that One can live with wisdom.

I felt alone in my battle with creativity.

And yet, my Buddhist rambled on.  He explained further how we have no souls.  That we humans  are no more than clusters of shared energy.  And that there is no such thing as identity, for we share each other’s being.   There is no such thing as individuality, as we all share each other.

I listen - and evaluate.  I feel even more frustrated, and think Well Hell!  If that is the case, why do I look for new subjects to write about?  If we all share everything – thoughts, memories, past life experiences – then we must all be authors - right? 

I stop to consider my situation - all of our situations.  I wonder if maybe we should all move down the street from each other.  We could have block parties and group barbeques.   We could wave to each other from the stoops of our porches.  We could walk to our writing meets together, since we all existed in the same neighborhood. 

That way, when I found myself to be stumped, I would know that we all were.
That way, I'd know what I really meant when I found myself saying I was suffering from Writer’s Block.

C May 2012

Story also published at http://www.escapeintolife.com/blog/writers-block/