It has been ever so long since I have written anything – of merit
or at all. My addled brain functioning
not so much as an artist in suffering, but as a machine of survival, it moved along as an old
pufferbelly whose wheels, by friction were made nearly impossible to move, and
only with an incredible amount of energy thrown into the fire.
I have what some call “writer’s block”.
Still, there are those who claim that writer’s block does
not exist. I beg to differ, as the term
simply describes one’s inability to put forth the written word. Of course, one may assume writer’s block does
not exist due to the multiple reasons and symptoms thereby rendering the term a
broad generalization.
But what are these reasons for WrB?
On a personal level, firstly, an inability to negotiate or
navigate a devoted time to writing, prevented writer’s glue from fastening my
backside to the chair that sits in front of the keys with all the pretty little
symbols; one would believe that a man, such as myself, with a beautiful wife, daughter,
and a business that all occupy a great deal of time. Now, one may say in my defense, “But those
are things that are unavoidable. You
have to go to work. You have to spend
time with your wife. You have to raise
your daughter with your wife.”
There are no “have to’s”.
There are choices.
Without going into a whole other subject: a “have to” would
include the intake of liquid into your body for survival; a “choice” would
equate to the argument about what form the liquid should take – water or
gasoline. If one makes the right choice,
there are positive consequences received.
If one chooses the unhealthy alternative, negative outcomes become the
reality.
The reality in this example for me becomes a matter of
priority. I chose and still choose my
family’s well-being over my need to release creative pheromones into the
ozone. Oddly, with all three of the
above mentioned priorities, including the business, creativity is
block-bursting, for better or worse, and in a genre different from that of the
lonely writer. As my “gift” is entertainment,
I choose to be alive, granted the energy exists in my being.
Much to my chagrin, I have been in a state of depression and
exhaustion, allowed perhaps by what I digest.
For though my spirit is in a state of recovery, my mind and physicality
are slow in the mend.
Finding devoted time to write has been an activity devoid of
fluid creativity; clunky, misguided depression due to realities I have
witnessed outside of things that only God can control, and that I can only
inhibit in process.
Life gets in the way.
But in the three (spirit, mind and body), I am choosing to
find joy.
Oddly, it is always there
for the taking.
And now I want to put word to paper. A choice to start here.
The burning embers in my pufferbelly.
