I have writer’s block.
Obviously, this block is not all-encompassing, or you wouldn’t be reading this. I don’t believe in that sort of block, anyway.
I was zipping through this new story, until I reached the end of part two a week ago. As of right now, I have three pages written in part three, and I’ll have to scrap them all. And three pages? In a week? I’m a slow writer, but not that slow.
This block feels like the usual post-draft burnout, only I haven’t finished a draft. Maybe my subconscious has decided I’ve run amok long enough and now it’s time to work more intensively on revising and submitting things.
Maybe something is wrong with the story. While my subconscious knows when I’ve taken a wrong turn (because my subconscious is a wise, wise woman, strong in the ways of
the Force storytelling), I am painfully slow to catch on. She kicks me into awareness by refusing to let me write. So I wait, and I listen, and sometimes she’ll tell me how I can fix these stories. The worst thing I can do is try to force the words.
Then there’s stress. Stress gives me creative constipation. It’s a simple formula: me + too much stress = creative block. It prevents me from composing new pieces or developing new ideas. Forget lengthy projects. I can edit, I can free-write, but I can’t write the way I want to. Stress is a constant in my life right now. I’d like to think I’m getting better at working with and around it.
But any time a lull like this comes along, there’s always that insidious fear that I’ve suddenly lost my ability to write. Will I never write again? Have I been wasting my time not pursuing a ‘real’ job since college?
…Nah; I don’t care about anything else enough to make a career of it. Besides which, I am amazingly adept at ignoring my fears. Unless we’re talking spiders, in which case I’m screwed.