I read a tweet awhile back. It said something to the effect of…don’t write about not being able to write.
Thing is, when you have writers block and nothing around you is giving inspiration, it’s so frustrating and all encompassing.
It’s all I can think about.
So, it’s what ends up here.
Ventings that speak of my frustrations.
Purgings of the already blank mind.
Writings that speak of not being able to write.
Little tiny pellet poops plopped down on the screen.
As writers, wanna-be’s or otherwise, we all know how incredibly upsetting it is to have a tumor of ideas, words, characters, plots all twisted in a ball and stuck in a festering lump.
It’s actually a very uncomfortable feeling.
The urge is there.
The pressure to push.
And…nothing comes out.
Reading others words and ideas are supposed to be like a writers laxative.
Love everyone else’s writings.
I laugh. I cry.
All the letters are sticking together, making an unintelligible chain that refuses to form a single word.
Forget the words, even the ideas are crank calling me, whispering obscenities and hanging up.
It’s creating such a build up that I feel like I may actually eventually explode.
So while I semi agree with that persons long gone tweet that it’s better to not write at all than to constantly write about not being able to write…
It’s better to get some of this sewage out, one stinky, hard pellet at a time than to let it sit and fester.
If I strain my brain and squeeze out one tiny little pellet post at a time, perhaps it will help the blockage to clear and a nice satisfying big one will happen.
Because, the thought of exploding is certainly not helping the problem.