There are yoga blocks, building blocks, new kids on the block, hockey blocks and cheese blocks. I have none of the fore mentioned blocks: Lucky me I have writer’s block. A solid white room with solid white walls starring down at me, all there is, is blank. There isn’t even a shadow. That’s probably because shadows can be very inspiring; just ask Peter Pan or William Shakespeare. As I stand staring at the blank space in front of me the artist inside feels anger bubbling up, knowing that I should be capable of transforming this time and space into any other. The only limit, myself and this block…which if we trace the origins back far enough is still, sigh, myself.
The compliment I hear most often (if you take it as a compliment) is: ‘I don’t know how you can do that.’ Oh dear, when I see it written down it doesn’t look so complimentary. What I am guessing slash hoping slash assuming most people mean is; I don’t know how you can write so much, so frequently. Instead of ‘How very dare you! Write with such a blatant disregard for all things natural…’ *spitting the words out with spicy southern distain. It is my hope that the effort of forcing myself to write so much, so often (even when I have nothing to write about) might inspire someone out there, beneath the pale moonlight, to write something even greater.
As always I have high hopes. So here I sit; waiting in this empty white room. Fingers crossed for inspiration to strike creative oil. For the expeditions I’ve been leading to stumble upon the lost creative artifacts. For my exploration to uncover forgotten relics of motivation. It seems unnatural that I might have to stand alone here for much longer. Even now I can hear the babbling brook of bravery, smoothing round the rocks of my ideas. The howling wind of change, rustling in the distance. And though I have been alone for too many writing sessions; I remain confident the moment of renewal is impending, imminent and at hand. Well, the good news is at least my thesaurus still works.