Writer’s block is the devil.
Every writer knows what I’m talking about.
You’ve changed scenery and even read books and articles for inspiration. You keep journaling and journaling, praying that what flows from your fountain pen or keyboard will manifest itself into this AH-MAZING piece that you can be proud of. You want the pure satisfaction of knowing you are indeed a writer who can’t be beaten by the infinite possible arrangements of twenty-six letters.
You’re a writer for crying out loud. That’s what you do. You write.
So, when you’re faced with a screen filled with incomprehensible rubbish, you want to pull your hair out and hurl yourself to the floor like a two-year-old who can’t have that sweet piece of sugar-coated goodness.
Related 4 Ways to Beat Writer's Block
This has been my life, ladies and gentlemen. For the past few weeks, I’ve been able to share must-haves for writers on vacay, I wrote content revolved around improving your writing, and I even wrote a book review on Angie Thomas’ The Hate U Give.
Yet, when I sit down to write a personal essay, I become a toddler again, learning to walk for the first time. I stumble to find my way. The words flow, but with resistance. Ideas appear but are muddied.
Why is it so much easier for me to write content for writers than personal essays?
Don’t get me wrong, I absolutely love writing instructional and fun pieces--BUT, my soul longs to bathe in the sweet bliss that only personal essays can give me. The high I feel when I bare my naked soul has to be what people experience every time they take a hit of some good stuff (so I hear).
I want to feel that natural high every time I pick up my purple pen or pull out my Green giant-sized laptop. I want to dive into a pool of this feeling and never come up for air some days.
Yet, I’m learning I have to come up for air. Otherwise, this incredible high will consume me completely, and I’ll overdose on the very thing that breathes so much life into me.
I wasn’t given this passion so I could escape my day-to-day life and responsibilities. In fact, I’ve come to learn writers must live to produce life-changing words.
We need to have tea with our daughter and paint a picture with our son. Go to a jazz club with our significant other and dance the night away. It may seem as if we’re not doing anything to propel our stories, but this isn’t true. We need to live to create.
Instead of forcing creativity to be kind, what I need is patience.
Patience to let my incomprehensible rubbish reconstruct itself into manna.
Patience to respect the process and the head space I must be in to commune with my creativity.
Great writing takes time. I cannot rush to build my Rome. I must grant my creativity the freedom she needs to bloom as she deems necessary.
What do you do when you struggle to write in a specific genre?