And just like that….

I am having trouble writing, today. I have feelings (many of them good, actually), but there exists this block between my head and my fingers.

I can feel around the edges of the block, feel the cool, sweet air just on the other side of it. But I cannot move it.

I think that it might be red streaked with black, but I haven’t a clue. Every time I try to  get a glimpse of it, it skitters away.

Moving writers’ blocks.
What WILL they think of next?

I think that this wall, this thing that is preventing my writing is this probably self-generated. I think it is an accumulation of rust and disuse. Like the gears and coils of a bombed out British clock shop.

Maybe, she thought, maybe if I just apply a little elbow grease and resolve, I can clean up this place. Make it habitable again. A place of rest and excitement and color, again. 
I could do it, she thought. It would just take a little patience. And practice. 

And practice.

Now is the Time for Me to Rise*

My friends, I must ask you a question.

When did writing become so hard? When did it become a chore to drag a word, a thought, a process out of the black hole of my <admittedly capricious> brain?

I’ll tell you when.

It isn’t age.
Authors have bloomed late in life.

But, I think…at least for me..that is a part of it.

There was a time y’all, when I could sit down and just….write. Words and ideas and dialogue and character motivation just flowed out of me, a river of thoughts. It was awesome. I thought it would last forever – I’m a writer this how I write all y’all so jelly of my ability to pull the words out and fap fap fap and so on and so forth.

But, it didn’t last. At least, not for me.

Now I sit down at the computer and stare sullenly at the blinky cursor. Angry. Sad. DARING the fucking words to just repopulate, once more.

If this were a Disney move, this is the point where I would tell y’all that magical talking mice or a tiny spacebot came and talked me through/took me on zany life-altering adventures.
This isn’t Disney, though.

What this is is the same exact thing that happened to me when I went to college. I had never done super well in school. But, except for a couple of choice classes (I’m looking at you, Maths) I did OK. And it wasn’t terribly hard, at all. I could study the text/notes/cliffnotes the night before and do well on an exam. That plus turning in the big homeworks usually kept my grades to an acceptable level.

But, I hadn’t flexed my study habit muscles. Like, ever. So, when I got to college and they expected me to, you know, actually work? Total shocker. It took a lot of blood, sweat, tears, and desperation (I despise losing) to get to where I was a good student.

And I think? I think that this is what might be happening here. I sit down now with a higher expectation of my writing. It has to go somewhere, do something. Not just exist and take up space.

I blame the English degree.

So, now I sit there and try to force a behavior that doesn’t feel natural to me anymore.

Is it age?
Is it atrophy of the skill?
Is it  something completely different?

Maybe I am wrong about the reasons why I am struggling with fiction so much right now.
I mean, it feels right as an answer, but I have certainly been misguided by my brain before.

I guess the only way I will know is if I sit down and do the work. Break out the blood, sweat, and tears. Desperation, I’ve already got handled, yo.

I still hate losing.

* – Title is from here.
Now is the time for me to rise to my feet (I will be heard)