I’ve lately been yelling at my computer, and it isn’t my computer’s fault. It’s mine. I’ve been looking at one particular manuscript, where the sentence trails half-finished between a beautiful young girl learning about a totally alien culture and being put on trial for desertion from her country. The scene is a pivotal point, where a matronly mother-figure explains the firing squad, so to speak, and why this girl has to stand in front of it. And she’s holding her head high.
I’m not. “Fall in love with her already!” has been my mantra for the past two weeks. I’ve spent nearly an hour today, just looking at it, wondering, fighting against all the distractions to just focus on the damned words.
So this is what writer’s block feels like. This is what the death of so many novels feels like. I stare into this great word-graveyard and wonder how I came to be like this.
I know exactly why. There’s no other explanation for such a penumbric stance. The partial shadow of a shadow of my former writing self. And the poetry I wrote. And the words that slid about like little snakes into each other. And the “I wrote that better than they did” stance. Now.
Now I see yet another distraction before me, this blog, while I wait for the words to come. Sometimes, my friends, you have to make the words come.
Happy writing, all.