The Joy of Writer's Block

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.