I’ve come to realize that writer’s block is not so much a
block as the internal critics shackles.
I haven’t written anything substantial all year. I’ve
not worked on the novel I retired to the mountains to do; I’ve not compiled the
poetry manuscript that’s been on the back burner for several years – probably burnt
to a crisp by now; I’ve not written any new poetry, and I’ve written very few
blog posts.
A few months ago, I thought I was getting closer to the explicit act. I’d subscribed to some writerly blogs and newsletters, and was
feeling the twitch. In fact, I was twitching all over.
The Write Practice gives prompts with every newsletter, and
every Sunday I get the Sunday Whirl with words to create poetry. Today, another
blog posted about Using Setting as a Character by Marylu Tyndale, while the prompt from The Write
Practice was to write about a road trip. There’d been another about ‘not’ being
balanced, and one that listed the 22 Rules of Storytelling According to Pixar. That got printed and is hanging in front of my face this very minute. The twitch had
become a burning itch.
So what did I do? Nothing. That critic shackled my hands
with the question, “What does any of that have to do with your novel or your
poetry? If you going to write, then write what you’re supposed to be writing.
If you’re going to call yourself a writer, then do it, but since you’re not
doing it…”
The itch cooled quickly and the twitching has subsided.
