Why do I stare at the screen but type no words? Why do I find pages to click and stations to hear to distract myself from the project at hand? Why do I think myself in circles always ending up at the same blank page?
Hours and hours, iced teas and crackers.
The longer I put it off, the less rest I get. The less rest I get, the less I want to write. The less I want to write, the more have to do. The more I have to do, the less I can muster the strength.
I’m glimpsing the torture of Van Gogh and Picasso. Trying to force creativity can drive you mad.
I know what my problem is. I’ve spent all day defining it in my head. I just can’t do anything about it. The more I know I should work, the harder it gets.
It’s as if I’m floating outside my body and yelling at it.
All this thinking is starting to work against me. I feel like I’m starting to expect the worst. I’ve got writer’s block, so I can’t write. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t. That’s just the way it is. I’ve convinced myself.
Maybe it’s gotten to be too late in the day. I should just relax for the rest of the evening and pick it up tomorrow. Then Iâ€™ll be more rested.
Maybe itâ€™s too early in the day. If I could only get some coffee to light a spark. If I could only check my email one more time.
Some fresh air. Thatâ€™s what I need. This stuffy apartment has snuffed out my creativity. Iâ€™m positively suffocating in here.
Maybe I should leave the dome and go be with the people. Yeah, thatâ€™s it. Itâ€™ll be good for my creative juices.
Iâ€™ve got it. Iâ€™ll play some guitar. That always helps me think. Or will that distract me?
Remember the good ole days… I could rip out pages and pages. I never got tired. Writing just gave me more energy.
Was that me?
Should I really be feeling miserable for myself? It doesnâ€™t seem to be helping… or maybe it does. It gives me something to do.
If I had to punch a clock, Iâ€™d find a way to get through the day. Iâ€™d swing the axe or serve the drinks or do whatever the boss asked me to do. Whyâ€™s it any different now?
Iâ€™d stress and haul to tear my way through traffic if I were five minutes late for someone else, but when Iâ€™m on my clock… I stare at the screen.
Maybe Iâ€™m missing some part of my brain. The part thatâ€™s normal and lets everyone else work. The part that blocks out all the static.
What are all these words doing on the page? I have writerâ€™s block. I canâ€™t write because… I just canâ€™t.
Whatâ€™s the deal with all these words? Is it possible that I have something to show for my time?
Maybe I just wrote something.
Couldnâ€™t be… I thought I was tired.
No, I definitely wrote something. Wow, whereâ€™d the time go?
I guess itâ€™s not so bad after all.
Oh, I get it. Youâ€™ve got to trick yourself into it.
Just start writing and all the excuses start to melt away.