Writer's Block
Holy moly cajoley!
I blogged like five days ago, but it feels like forever. It's possibly because I was sick, so time got a little warpy. It's possibly because I've been thinking so much about my wacky story about Michael the Traveler.
Who knows.
I actually kinda would prefer to be writing for Michael or for Meadowvale, but I'm letting Meadowvale simmer for a while as I make it through the holidays and as I stretch some of my writer's limbs with Michael.
Michael's has been such a freeing story. I'm discovering how much I restrict myself, how much I stall myself. Granted, with Meadowvale, I kind of have to keep some semblance of a plot in order. Still, I probably block myself a lot.
I've been thinking about that thing they call "writer's block." At first, via impulse, I discounted it as a mere lack of gumption, preparation, or some other choosable resource. After doing a quick search, it seems to have substantial documentation.
Perhaps. Perhaps. Perhaps.
I don't know, and I've only written so much, but I feel like I could never run out of things to write. I could run out of time and energy, but I don't know how I could ever encounter "writer's block."
In other words, I could imagine a tragedy that breaks me such that I couldn't write. Although, I imagine I would just write about a tragedy, so I don't know.
I have to write about Werbel and then his sister. I have to write about my elementals. I have to write about the kingdom of the seven colors. I have all these dream sketches I've plodded down over the years. I could always write about my time knight. I could write about the world where they discovered the fourth dimension—the actual touchable space that contains spaces (not the multiverse but just a bunch of undiscovered space right at our three-dimensional fingertips). I could write about the BMIVs. I could write about the children who grow out of their superpowers. I could write about the math-breathing dragon or the variable ghosts (x^0 etc.).
And that's just story ideas! Then I have so many board game ideas! And some children's book ideas. Another idea actually that I don't want to share because it's so good. I've probably already shared too much already. And then there's another idea for a set of books! But I can't tell you about that one either. I really should delete all of these ideas, but that's my point: I'll never have the chance to write them all!
Partially, cuz I'm a lazy slug (but don't tell anybody). Mostly (I like to think), because there is too much to write! Writer's block seems as possible as I don't even know because it doesn't seem possible! I could imagine being distracted by other obligations. I could imagine having no energy or something like that, but I really can't imagine writer's block as it's commonly described.
I wish, I want, I need, I wish I could write all the time. Yes yes yes, I shy away from it sometimes because I'm lazy or timid or whatnot. I could always write more to be sure, but I'm half intimidated by it because it will never be enough. The more I wrote for Meadowvale, the more I needed to write for Meadowvale! The more I wrote for Michael the Traveler, the more I needed to write for Michael the Traveler!
Writer's block seems impossible. There are all these stories trying to unfold, and I just haven't made enough time for them. Then there are stories that I just jot down because I don't want to lose them, but I'll never have time for them. Then there are stories that I just let disappear because I'll never have time even to worry about how little time I'd have for them.
And then I wonder how writer's block could happen to anyone! Maybe I just haven't experienced anything close to what some people have. Maybe I just haven't written enough. But it seems so impossible. If I were heartbroken, I'd write about it. If I were joyful, I'd write about it. If I had to explain a thought or feeling, I'd write about it. If I wanted to tell a story, I'd write about it. If I wanted to paint a picture, I'd write about it. If I wanted to let my mind wander, I'd write about it. If I wanted to give a gift or share my heart or offer a skill, I'd write.
Even if I were full addled in the brain, I'd ramble out my incoherent thoughts! Even if I were insecure about my literature, I'd blab in my private journal or on a scrap of paper that I'd later trash. Even if I had nothing to say, I'd ramble aimlessly just for the exercise. Even if I was not allowed to write, I'd mumble lines under my breath.
Maybe. Maybe. Maybe they were darkened.
I remember a time when I was dark—a miserable wretch to be sure but mostly dark like a light: just off or broken. Even then—though never often enough of course—I wrote. I wrote miserable poems and hateful journal entries. I wrote emails I never sent (or never should have sent). Even then, my heart, my mind, my soul, my body called out to write. Even if I didn't write, I could feel the quiet, miserable need to write. And then I would—on sheer, miserable principle if nothing else.
How?
How could a writer not write?
I blogged like five days ago, but it feels like forever. It's possibly because I was sick, so time got a little warpy. It's possibly because I've been thinking so much about my wacky story about Michael the Traveler.
Who knows.
I actually kinda would prefer to be writing for Michael or for Meadowvale, but I'm letting Meadowvale simmer for a while as I make it through the holidays and as I stretch some of my writer's limbs with Michael.
Michael's has been such a freeing story. I'm discovering how much I restrict myself, how much I stall myself. Granted, with Meadowvale, I kind of have to keep some semblance of a plot in order. Still, I probably block myself a lot.
I've been thinking about that thing they call "writer's block." At first, via impulse, I discounted it as a mere lack of gumption, preparation, or some other choosable resource. After doing a quick search, it seems to have substantial documentation.
Perhaps. Perhaps. Perhaps.
I don't know, and I've only written so much, but I feel like I could never run out of things to write. I could run out of time and energy, but I don't know how I could ever encounter "writer's block."
In other words, I could imagine a tragedy that breaks me such that I couldn't write. Although, I imagine I would just write about a tragedy, so I don't know.
I have to write about Werbel and then his sister. I have to write about my elementals. I have to write about the kingdom of the seven colors. I have all these dream sketches I've plodded down over the years. I could always write about my time knight. I could write about the world where they discovered the fourth dimension—the actual touchable space that contains spaces (not the multiverse but just a bunch of undiscovered space right at our three-dimensional fingertips). I could write about the BMIVs. I could write about the children who grow out of their superpowers. I could write about the math-breathing dragon or the variable ghosts (x^0 etc.).
And that's just story ideas! Then I have so many board game ideas! And some children's book ideas. Another idea actually that I don't want to share because it's so good. I've probably already shared too much already. And then there's another idea for a set of books! But I can't tell you about that one either. I really should delete all of these ideas, but that's my point: I'll never have the chance to write them all!
Partially, cuz I'm a lazy slug (but don't tell anybody). Mostly (I like to think), because there is too much to write! Writer's block seems as possible as I don't even know because it doesn't seem possible! I could imagine being distracted by other obligations. I could imagine having no energy or something like that, but I really can't imagine writer's block as it's commonly described.
I wish, I want, I need, I wish I could write all the time. Yes yes yes, I shy away from it sometimes because I'm lazy or timid or whatnot. I could always write more to be sure, but I'm half intimidated by it because it will never be enough. The more I wrote for Meadowvale, the more I needed to write for Meadowvale! The more I wrote for Michael the Traveler, the more I needed to write for Michael the Traveler!
Writer's block seems impossible. There are all these stories trying to unfold, and I just haven't made enough time for them. Then there are stories that I just jot down because I don't want to lose them, but I'll never have time for them. Then there are stories that I just let disappear because I'll never have time even to worry about how little time I'd have for them.
And then I wonder how writer's block could happen to anyone! Maybe I just haven't experienced anything close to what some people have. Maybe I just haven't written enough. But it seems so impossible. If I were heartbroken, I'd write about it. If I were joyful, I'd write about it. If I had to explain a thought or feeling, I'd write about it. If I wanted to tell a story, I'd write about it. If I wanted to paint a picture, I'd write about it. If I wanted to let my mind wander, I'd write about it. If I wanted to give a gift or share my heart or offer a skill, I'd write.
Even if I were full addled in the brain, I'd ramble out my incoherent thoughts! Even if I were insecure about my literature, I'd blab in my private journal or on a scrap of paper that I'd later trash. Even if I had nothing to say, I'd ramble aimlessly just for the exercise. Even if I was not allowed to write, I'd mumble lines under my breath.
Maybe. Maybe. Maybe they were darkened.
I remember a time when I was dark—a miserable wretch to be sure but mostly dark like a light: just off or broken. Even then—though never often enough of course—I wrote. I wrote miserable poems and hateful journal entries. I wrote emails I never sent (or never should have sent). Even then, my heart, my mind, my soul, my body called out to write. Even if I didn't write, I could feel the quiet, miserable need to write. And then I would—on sheer, miserable principle if nothing else.
How?
How could a writer not write?
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