I never suffer from writer’s block. I always have something to write about. Ideas and words are always available. They mix and mingle and multiply – they scurry around my brain – they give me no rest. The hard part is in catching them, putting them to work, organizing them, calming them – that is the part that requires effort for me, not creating them in the first place.
No, there is no such thing as writer’s block in my world. However, there is such a thing as Writer’s Boredom. I don’t stare at the blank page and wonder how to fill it. I stare at a page full of words and wonder, why am I bothering. It is all so BORING.
I write the words and they flow across the page. They flow, cough once, then sputter and die. They sit there on the screen looking pretty but doing nothing. Like an artist’s model with a pouty glare, denying entry into her soul. The artist can spend hours of time, go through buckets of paint, cover miles of canvas, but if the model, or the landscape, or the still life just sits there and refuses to sparkle, well then, everyone’s time is wasted.
Go ahead, tell me it is the artist’s or the writer’s job to make the sparkle happen, not the other way around.
I’ll say, I don’t care, and you are ruining my essay. Don’t use logic on me when I am feeling pouty.
Look at this picture. It is how I feel – except that the kid is probably twenty-five years younger than I am, and he is a boy, and his underwear is showing which I can’t stand. (Oh, 1980’s high-waisted jeans style – please come back soon. Please!)
I’m glad the photographer called this picture, Boat of Boredom, otherwise I would have had to. A boat doing nothing. Certainly not floating on water like it is supposed to. Not carrying its passenger to places more exciting and interesting then here, now.
This post is going nowhere. I’m going nowhere despite all this mental and physical movement. Fingers flying furiously – as uselessly as a bird flying in a cage.
There is a sense of obligation to all you imaginary people out there – all you figments of my attention seeking brain, a sense that I need to fulfill the promise of writing something every day. But I only demanded that promise of myself, no one asked it of me. And I am the only one disappointed when I fail to fulfill it.
I am not one of those people who can live by the old adage, write for yourself. If I was my only reader, I would never write. Never. I would never spend all this energy wrangling my thoughts just for my own reading pleasure. Way too much work. I’d rather just read someone else’s words.
I need an audience.
Need is such an ugly word. The strong, independent woman in me hates that word. Well, the strong, independent woman in me is a lie. I need people. I need family and friends to be a mirror to myself. I don’t exist except by the way I reflect off of others. How else do I know I am here?
I need people to read my words.
I need someone to tell me if I am boring.