In the last two days, two of my blogosphere buddies have both posted about writing obstacles and writer’s block, and various ways of dealing with the bane of the writer’s existence.
First, Uppington, via a very apt metaphor of taking a long road trip, wrote about the various pitfalls that can befall the traveler, and how to deal them. We have many options available, as in life, for getting through the tough times when the world seems to conspire against us ever putting pen to paper, or fingers to keyboard.
And today, Jenna Reynolds uses the driving metaphor to describe the battle with writer’s block. I’m not sure I know the emergency number for dealing with writer’s block.
All of this is to say that it seems like we are all feeling some weird cosmic vibe right about now, either with time constraints or imagination constraints, that are preventing any forward motion with our stories. For me, it seems to be a cross between, what? Laziness? Lack of ideas? ADD? Depression? I can’t even leave comments on blogs much lately, if it deals with writing. I’m in such a funk I’ve thought about giving up entirely. I mean really, who am I kidding? It’s not like I’ll ever actually get published, so what’s the point? I feel like I should probably turn my attention to other more productive pursuits. And then I think, I could just as easily be wasting my time sitting in front of the tv, watching some idiotic “reality” show like the vast majority of the country. So, whatever, if I choose to waste my time trying to write it’s no worse than what most people waste their time on, right?
So all this is to say that if I haven’t been around to visit your blog lately, I apologize, but as you can see I’m not really in the frame of mind to be leaving cheery comments.
‘All writers are vain, selfish and lazy, and at the very bottom of their motives lies a mystery. Writing a book is a long, exhausting struggle, like a long bout of some painful illness. One would never undertake such a thing if one were not driven by some demon whom one can neither resist nor understand.’
George Orwell in England, Your England
I think I’ll go play with my demons.