Writer’s block sucks. And it sucks so much because you have so much you want to do, want to say, but then you’re stuck staring at a blank page, or an old piece that has yet to reach the finish line, or something of the sort. It’s absolutely painful, and when it happens to you it almost feels like you’re sick, not physically but creatively. “Once the illness passes,” you say to yourself, “I’ll get back to writing!”
A lot has been holding me back. Post-vacation depression, being away from my best friend, working constantly, ennui, and a general feeling of “where the fuck do I go next?” With so much pressure to write and having friends and family say, “you’ll be the best writer there will ever be!” It’s encouraging, and I never take positive sentiments for granted, but I’m not Bradbury, nor Asimov, or hell even the next Stephen King.
I’m me. I have my own voice, with my own style, and that should be enough to cover the bill. Right? Well, writing is honesty poured onto a page, and some nights I don’t feel like communing with the muses. It’s hard for me to think back to when I actually felt the craving to write creatively. I’m sure it wasn’t all that long ago, in fact The Dreamcatcher was far and beyond the most ambitious and fun work I’ve done in years, but you can’t live in your victories for too long.
The irony of this post is that just two weeks ago, I said that I would make more of a conscious effort to cultivate this blog. Aaaaand I’m working on it. Slooooowly. Yes, let the onomatopoeia of my dragging words convince you. It’s hard to be a creator, especially one with almost too much freedom. It’s like bungee jumping without a fear of death. Sure it’s great, you can bungee jump and laugh in the face of God all day long, but there’s no thrill.
For me, I need a deadline and a specific reason to complete this deadline. For instance, I told my best friend I would complete the comic for her within two months. And I did, and the fact that I had the pressure of a deadline was satisfying as hell. Granted she never pressured me (and the fact that it was a comic was a surprise), but I did the pressuring. It may be the only reason I’m okay being an anxious person.
So, whatever. Let this rant be stuck to the wall and live on as…a memoir? Perhaps one day I’ll come back to this post and think, “damn I was struggling then, I wonder if I had back then that I was about to turn the corner onto a great future?” Who knows. I’ll leave this here, partially as a way to add some character to the blog, and because posting anything gives me that sweet, sweet dopamine rush.
Until next time, Fence Grade Smoke.
*Image courtesy of Google Images.