A friend (shout out, Andrea!) suggested a post on writer's block so I'm writing it here, trying to coax out some sort of narrative to share with y'all.
But I'm blocked. Blocked the eff UP, people. I can barely string two sentences together and it is frustrating. I like to write. No, I *love* to write, but ... but...
It's It. It as in my condition. It robs you of the joy you find in the things that you normally would enjoy but suddenly it brings you nothing. Like not even anguish, but just... nothing. Well, I suppose it brings the mild frustration mentioned before, but otherwise, it's more of a ho-hum reaction.
I am trying to work on a new story that has been in the making since I was a little girl and read The Hobbit for the first time. I made up this fantastical place where I was the hero and I was tended by a gruff but loving uncle and I was a really good hunter but then my life was turned upside down when I realized I was Special. I'm trying to write down a grown up version of this but I'm... blocked. I have all this self doubt. First off, the narrative sounds childish and it's going to need a looooot of work. Second, the ideas rattling in my brain are no longer original. The Hunger Games already did a story about a girl with a bow who kicks ass. Third, creating a new world in a world with lots of pretend worlds is daunting. And it makes me truly doubt that I am even a writer. So I don't write.
This blog is a nice outlet for my Feelings and my occasional observations of the world, but does that make me a writer? What makes me a writer? Do I make that decision? Do I need external validation to finally believe I can write? Any one can write, just like any one can pick up a phone and take really good pictures, but does that make them a photographer?
You all give me lots of validation. I'm virtually surrounded by lots of people who enjoy my narrative and I love to make people smile. That is good.
I've been having thoughts of turning writing into Writing (I'm capitalizing my important words in this post, have you noticed?), but how am I supposed to do this with a bad case of blockage?
All of this is rhetorical, of course. You have no idea. I have no idea. I read somewhere that one just needs to practice and one just needs to read more in order to write more. So I'm reading several books at once (which, by the way, used to be what depression used to rob me of, but nowadays I've figured out how to read and not feel like I'm neglecting my responsibilities. Yes, I really was that voracious of a reader). I'm reading Being Mortal by Atul Gawande, which is my evening read. I'm listening to Lamb: The Gospel According to Biff by Christopher Moore, which is my working around the house read. My electronic reads are harder to do considering it's all on my phone, but I'm juggling two reads at the moment, depending on my mood. The first is Empire of Storms by Sarah J. Maas, and the second is Rising Strong by Brene Brown. I've admittedly not read either of these in awhile since I started Being Mortal considering I wanted a hard copy book to read before bedtime instead of having the glow of my phone pummeling my eyes right before I try to sleep. So they've been my On The Go reads.
So where does this leave me? With a blog post about writer's block that really doesn't go anywhere.
But at least I can write about writer's block, right?
But I'm blocked. Blocked the eff UP, people. I can barely string two sentences together and it is frustrating. I like to write. No, I *love* to write, but ... but...
It's It. It as in my condition. It robs you of the joy you find in the things that you normally would enjoy but suddenly it brings you nothing. Like not even anguish, but just... nothing. Well, I suppose it brings the mild frustration mentioned before, but otherwise, it's more of a ho-hum reaction.
I am trying to work on a new story that has been in the making since I was a little girl and read The Hobbit for the first time. I made up this fantastical place where I was the hero and I was tended by a gruff but loving uncle and I was a really good hunter but then my life was turned upside down when I realized I was Special. I'm trying to write down a grown up version of this but I'm... blocked. I have all this self doubt. First off, the narrative sounds childish and it's going to need a looooot of work. Second, the ideas rattling in my brain are no longer original. The Hunger Games already did a story about a girl with a bow who kicks ass. Third, creating a new world in a world with lots of pretend worlds is daunting. And it makes me truly doubt that I am even a writer. So I don't write.
This blog is a nice outlet for my Feelings and my occasional observations of the world, but does that make me a writer? What makes me a writer? Do I make that decision? Do I need external validation to finally believe I can write? Any one can write, just like any one can pick up a phone and take really good pictures, but does that make them a photographer?
You all give me lots of validation. I'm virtually surrounded by lots of people who enjoy my narrative and I love to make people smile. That is good.
I've been having thoughts of turning writing into Writing (I'm capitalizing my important words in this post, have you noticed?), but how am I supposed to do this with a bad case of blockage?
All of this is rhetorical, of course. You have no idea. I have no idea. I read somewhere that one just needs to practice and one just needs to read more in order to write more. So I'm reading several books at once (which, by the way, used to be what depression used to rob me of, but nowadays I've figured out how to read and not feel like I'm neglecting my responsibilities. Yes, I really was that voracious of a reader). I'm reading Being Mortal by Atul Gawande, which is my evening read. I'm listening to Lamb: The Gospel According to Biff by Christopher Moore, which is my working around the house read. My electronic reads are harder to do considering it's all on my phone, but I'm juggling two reads at the moment, depending on my mood. The first is Empire of Storms by Sarah J. Maas, and the second is Rising Strong by Brene Brown. I've admittedly not read either of these in awhile since I started Being Mortal considering I wanted a hard copy book to read before bedtime instead of having the glow of my phone pummeling my eyes right before I try to sleep. So they've been my On The Go reads.
So where does this leave me? With a blog post about writer's block that really doesn't go anywhere.
But at least I can write about writer's block, right?
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