Let’s talk writer’s block again. I’ve been battling my own block for a long time… roughly four years now. I started this blog, with the encouragement from others, as a means to help combat this growing problem. It’s working, and it’s not.
I’m a creative writer, I enjoy writing from a totally non-first-person point of view. I, until the block, used written word as a means to help alleviate the emotional and mental pain/frustration I was going through. It helped get me through most of my years at college, but I suddenly felt dried up. Is there a well we’re all born with, that eventually runs dry? Why is it that I can sit here, talk about music videos and discuss quotes and bunnies until I’m blue in the face, but I can’t physically sit down and write something from a creative stand point.
And it’s really not from a lack of ideas. They’re all there. Rumbling around in my noggin. Interesting ideas, great ideas, things I have this never-ending itch to write down, to solidify with ink and make them… ‘real.’ But then, when I sit to do it, it just doesn’t come. I put on music that helps me to write, I try to block out the background noise and I try to get to that zone, but I can’t reach it anymore.
I’m getting desperate at this point. Maybe subconsciously I still feel like I’m ‘too’ busy, even though I quit my second job. Maybe I’m not blocking out the right amount of noise, or maybe I”ll still just too displeased with the direction my life has taken to really feel anything inspirational.
I sit with these thoughts everyday. And then I think to myself, maybe that’s why I can’t find a job as a Journalist. Maybe potential employers can see this big stamp on my forehead that says dried up, incapable, blocked. I don’t know anymore. I know I’ve got the talent, not trying to be egotistical, but it’s there. And the first step to actually being good is to acknowledge that you are, in fact, a decent writer. So then, what seems to be the problem.
I want to be a narrative journalist. I want to tell everyone’s story. I want to tell every story, from the immigrant who came here to start their own restaurant, to the girl who helped saved a cat from a tree. No story is too big or too small; we all have a story to tell. And I really want to be the one to tell it. But then, I sit and this well is just, gone. The bucket has hit the bottom, rattling around on the cobblestones. The rope falls with ease, falling amongst the lonely bucket, curling against its wooden frame, offering kind words to its untimely demise.
But maybe, just maybe, there’s another rope, with a hook, destined to pick the old one back up. And maybe, one day, the bucket will rise from the darkness of the one well, and realize that what it had imagined was the only supply of life, was just one section, one small, infinitesimal piece of the world. And in a couple years, as the bucket works with speed and grace once more, carrying a never-ending amount of creativity, it will realize that the brief blip, the dark, unforgiving world it thought it had sunken into, is meaningless now.
And with a smile, I’ll transfer this creativity into work, for everyone to see.
I just have to remember… Never. Give. Up. Every single world I write here is one, small step in the right direction. And on nights like tonight, when it feels hopeless… I know I’ll look back in a couple years and think about how melodramatic I had become. And then I’ll laugh, probably a lot. Being able to laugh at oneself is important.
Laugh I will. Laugh until it hurts.