Hell is a writer with nothing to say

Ever have one of those days when the blank page in front of you takes on the form of an evil sneer that mocks you because of all the barren thought bubbles drifting aimlessly above your head? Every writer knows exactly what I’m talking about. Many of them are nodding their empty heads right now.

We writers want to write with the same intensity that you want to eat that big mother of a chocolate fudge sundae with whipped cream, peanuts, and a cherry on top. But sometimes our brains refuse to cooperate with our fingers, which hover and twitch above the keyboard like a row of benched kids with ADD. Those ten fingers ache to dance across those keys the minute the brain releases anything remotely intelligent. But every so often the well up there is drier than the Atacama Desert.

It hurts. It makes us grind our teeth and sometimes even bang our heads against walls. Is it any wonder that most writers are just a little bit (or maybe a lot) borderline insane?

The topic reminds me of a poem I wrote during a time when the Atacama Desert was having some rainfall:

A DAY IN THE LIFE OF THIS WRITER

I slouch before my PC screen.
New Word doc there. 
So bare. So clean.

I itch to write a simple line,
But not a thought will come to mind.

I usually have too much to say.
Damn brain. It’s shooting blanks today.

My need to write’s a gnawing ache.
Grey matter, please! 
It’s time to wake.

O woe is me! I think I’ll try
To spark things with a nip of rye.

Alas! She’s back—O heav’nly brain!
Back in the saddle, I am again.

Thoughts aflame. Hair’s on fire.
I’m higher than a frequent flyer.

Of this writing life, I’ll never tire.

On that note, I would like to end this post by stating that the day I get tired of the writing life is the day that hell will freeze over!

Wait a minute…it did freeze over last winter in most of Ontario didn’t it? Remember what it looked like outside at this time last year? So pretty on branches. Not so pretty on power lines.

Here are some visual reminders.

ice on chive bloom

ice on leaves

split trees

icy tree iced branches

 

Advertisements

9 Comments

  1. January 11, 2015 at 10:24 am

    “a lot borderline insane”

    Only a writer could make that work. I completely understand your struggles and suffer right along with you. Writer’s block… It’s almost like suddenly not being complete. You are a writer. You write. That’s your thing. Your brain exists to create. Your fingers exist to type or write. When the well dries up, all those parts of you suffer withdraws, and you suddenly have no idea who you are. Who are you if you can’t write? It’s an empty, scary feeling.

    By the way, I love your blog. I just stumbled across it tonight. I believe I’ll follow you around for a bit. 😉 Have a wonderful day.

    Like

  2. Catherine Johnson said,

    January 7, 2015 at 5:10 pm

    Love this! I am always snacking to stay in my chair, so naughty.

    Like

  3. sheila davidson said,

    December 30, 2014 at 10:49 am

    Your creativity flows even when you think everything is frozen!

    Like

  4. December 23, 2014 at 6:38 pm

    Spelling error in my last post. It’s “Your” not “You’re”. Sorry. See, I’m not a writer.

    Like

  5. December 23, 2014 at 6:37 pm

    You’re brain doesn’t freeze up too often though. I never met anyone before with a brain dancing in a thousand different directions all at the same time – creativity practically flowing out of your eyeballs.

    And oh my yes, I remember last winter only too well. It looks like we’re heading for another one just like it. Ugh.

    Like


I would love to hear from you!

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: