I have a wicked case of writers block. It’s been going on for months. While I can formulate something amazing in my mind, when I sit to write….all I do it stare at the blinking cursor. It’s mocking me. Ha, ha..you can’t write jack.
The stories that dance around in my head, the imaginary places I live while I’m alone, so clear and perfect. But putting them into words, well, it just won’t happen.
I spent the better part of 17 years working on a ‘book’. I’m about half way through and just decided to drop it. All that work and I have no desire to finish it. I know how it ends in my head, and that’s where it will stay. In my head. Locked up. While the characters on the screen wait. Puzzled at their inaction.
The past few years of my life could make a novel. Maybe a self-help one. A romance gone bad one. A ‘how not to kill someone’ book. Honestly, who wants to read about how I made it through my divorce? No one, really. I don’t want to drag all that back to the surface, the panic attacks, the near hospitalizations I had when I couldn’t find my footing.
I want to write the stories. The good, the bad, the ugly. The happy endings, the tragic ones. The ones that piss you off. The ones you fall in love with. I know I have it in here. Somewhere, rattling around like a ghost in an old house. Just not quite ready to come out.
I want to be more than who I am. I know there is more to me than this day-to-day person I have become. So predictable and boring. When people ask what I do for fun, I have to seriously think about it. Fun? I don’t understand the question. I sleep. That is fun. I want to be able to say I write. About anything, everything, the big stuff, the little stuff. I know I NEED to. It’s in my DNA, it is who I am. But what if the damage of the past few years has ultimately changed my DNA it being someone who just wants to blend into the scenery. Nothing to see here. Move along. That can’t be all there is.
I figured coming back here was a start. Somewhere to ramble, to wander about. To find out where I have gone. The fiercely protective writer. Nurturing my characters into who they are to become. Weaving plot lines seamlessly around them. The hero, the anti-hero, the conflict, the climax, the end. Somewhere it’s in here. Somewhere.