Writer's Block

I have these curious moments when on the tip of my tongue- or rather the tips of my fingers- there are a thousand words.  Maybe more.  They are jittery words; urgent words; words that want to be let loose to whip through my world and leave in their wake casualties.

The words, however, are not the curiosity in these curious moments.  The words are always there.  Always.  If I am someday dissected, you will find me composed of those words, letters, language.  Layers upon layers of fluency and frequency: vibrating, humming, flowing words.

The words are not the curiosity at all.

It is that in these moments, I cannot figure out how to let go of them.  I have a thousand words to wake up, a hundred things to say, dozens of bridges to burn- but I cannot seem to make it happen.  I think about all of these points I want to make, all of these gauntlets I want to toss down and they are right there.  But this dam, that wall, these promises I make to myself won't come down.  None of them will break.

In these moments, the bricks or blocks won't budge.

Anyone who writes- which is to say everyone- even if it's only ever in a diary; even if it's simply a signature on a check; any- and every- one who writes has these moments of pause.  Just as the pen hits the paper, just as the fingertips begin to caress the keyboard like the body of a longtime lover, there is a disconnect.  For most it is an instant to collect themselves and their thoughts.  For me it is maddening.  It feels like being cut off from my life-blood.  It feels like the worst sort of stage fright mixed with the oddest out-of-body experience mixed with frustrating, churning pain.  It is like opening my mouth to scream and finding I have no voice.

I have no voice.

I have writer's block.

And then it half becomes a waiting game for the block to break and it half becomes desperation for some inspiration- maybe that cardinal sitting in the tree; maybe that shaft of sun illuminating that one bit of frosted grass before the rest; maybe that accident; maybe that love; maybe witnessing some moment against the backdrop of some time; maybe maybe maybe.  Maybe it will go away on it's own.

Or maybe you have to force it's hand, your hand, my hand.  Which is to say, just start pulling away at whatever

And until next time, My Dearests… that's how you write about not being able to write.