Writer's Block

The problem with writing is that the moment you take a day or two off from it you begin to loose any ability you ever had. You begin to be unable to make any kind of meaningful or new observation on the world. Every word is just a repeat. Every sentence feels forced and awkward. Oh! The paragraphs are nothing but death squads of letters waiting to make the unsuspecting reader go blind.

In times of being unable to write I turn to reading. I always do this feeling that reading others' words will put me into a literary mindset, but always close the book feeling even more hopeless than before I opened the book. "How can I ever hope to produce anything like this?!" my mind yells with each page. I begin to feel like I am faking at being anything near a writer. This guy is obviously better than I am at putting words into real thoughts. The only things I can even think are self-absorbed feelings that no one hasn't heard before.

At this point I decide that I need to try to write again. I start reading where I left off in my writing and discover that I have written myself into a corner! What was I thinking when I wrote this shit? I need to fix all of this. But then I realize that I can't get rid of it before I can write again otherwise I will have ended up with negative progress for the day! Damn... I frantically add a paragraph to the work in the hopes that I can get on to the next point in my outline, but the transition isn't fluid enough.

I decide I can't care about that. That is for me to edit later when I have the two parts already. But then I can't think of how to make my point in a way that doesn't just come off as me saying something. I need an argument. I need examples.

I go back to reading. I check the news. I check the mail.

I sit down and decide to write a page of pure fiction. Here I start to just let my mind wonder as I talk about the slightly overweight, but mousy girl who works at the late night coffee shop down the road from the bar that hipsters and truckers frequent. But then what happens next is a dead end. Does she meet someone? Do I even want to keep up with this person when the group of friends in the booth by the jukebox is having such an interesting conversation about the worst sexual encounters they have ever had? At least I don't need a plot or a point, but, god, why can't I think of anything worse than the time Marcus was on a second date with a girl and they went to her house and as they were getting naked he finds mint jelly in her bed. "Yeah, mint jelly! As in what you put on lamb. When I asked her about it she turned bright red and told me to get out."

That is when I break down and blog.