Writer's Block

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. 

"What Do You Write?"

As I sit here, on the mountaintop, beneath birdsong, surrounded by lushness, with the ever present "you should be writing" voice repeating itself in my brain, the question I'm always asked whenever I say I'm a writer looms large.

"I retired to the mountains to write," I mentioned to a neighbors guest yesterday when he walked his dog by and Mello growled at the unknown presence.

"Oh, you're a writer. What do you write?"

Besides the fact that I've not written much of anything lately except blog posts about my One Women Homestead, or the fact that I'm not writing, this questions always perturbs me. Even artists must be labeled and placed in a particular box.

A painter paints landscapes or watercolors or portraits or houses. A musician plays jazz or blues or rock and roll. A dancer does ballet or ballroom or hip-hop. As though, if they chose, they couldn't do the other, or all.

Cozy goldness peeks through lush limbs

Turns to hazy heated afternoon becomes

Cool silvery midnight glow

I write poetry. I write reviews. I write short stories. I am writing a novel. I write blog posts about all kinds of 'stuff' here, and I write writerly stuff here. But to put all that in an answer to "what do you write?" I shouldn't have to. 

I am a writer. You are a dancer, musician, painter. We are artists. We create. 

Don't let them put you in a box because as sure as that cozy goldness turns to hazy heat to cool silver, they will close the flaps and seal us in.