I’m having a bout of writer’s block. I’m asymptomatic, nothing at all, naught. I haven’t been able to churn good copy the past few days probably. You know; when you’re muse wheels on lethargically. Creaking, desperately in need for some oil. Sputtering. Huffing and puffing. Arduously revving to move. I feel like I’m trapped in a viscous quick sand and the more I exert to save myself the more I sink further.
If this were when I had just began my writing journey, I would’ve had a panic attack (not really). I would wallow in apprehensiveness; that perhaps the pen has repulsed me. That I’m not good enough. That a gaping chasm sits in the foundation of my province.That i have to focus on other ideas I had toyed with; culinary arts. Graphic design. Illustration. Pimping perhaps, okay, I’m joshing, even if I weren’t I don’t have gaudy apparel to begin with.
The thing about this writer’s plague isn’t that you can’t write. You can, hell, you can write for here to Namanga. Only, you won’t relish the process. You won’t love the copy. You will stare at it and it will seem bereft. With no pulse. Just a superficial literary piece. You’ll be like a chap/lass trapped in a loveless marriage. And no, it won’t come to life when the readers take it in. It will be deadwood.
I don’t know who dubbed it that – writer’s block. Perhaps the person couldn’t beat a fast approaching deadline and resigned to scour for an excuse and in an epiphany it came to him, clicked in his mind like a light bulb; writer’s block. So he called the boss:
“My article isn’t though, I need it”
“Writer’s block. I’m suffering from it, i can write for shit”
“I need my article!”
I’ll research on its origins after this. I’m not trying to single handedly reform the country so i have time. I’ll go down that Google rabbit hole, glean for answers and maybe put a face to this malady that plagues writers and hopefully not end up on effing Biggie Smalls conspiracy theories.
Inadequacy is always on the prowl. It lurks on whiffs of self-doubt and pounces on your musings, sets camp and stews its callousness. It bruises your esteem. It strips you bare for folk to gawp at your insecurities. It makes you chase tail as you try to prove your worth. Methinks the antidote to writer’s block is you don’t have to force things to align. Take some air, watch a movie maybe it will blow over before you can wrap your head around it.
I don’t know why I’m writing this, it’s a grouse. Maybe, it’s a recourse to get out of my funk and I think I have. You know, free writing; write even when you know not where you’re heading with it, let it lead you. That’s what I’m doing. So let it bleed.
Anyway, who shot Biggie Smalls?