I’m having my first serious “writer’s block” since the love blog began It’s not as if I’ve run out of ideas or experiences to share, rather, I feel as if my fingers are confined in little boxes, unsure of words that will set them free. Such a circumstance begs me to ask why? Although writer’s block is a common term, especially among college students and aspiring authors, I feel as if it’s a Band-Aid for a deeper sort of wound. Writer’s block is created within the boundaries of each individual. In my class, I’ve, probably subconsciously, created a barrier to writing.
But why?
Writing has always been a form of therapy for me. I used to scream at my mom when I couldn’t sleep at night and she’d hand me paper and pen and tell me to write until I fell back asleep. In middle school, I wrote stories and found my niche in my English class. Then, in high school, when “I love yous” were shared like germs at a daycare and boyfriends changed with the week, my journal my drama catcher and, consequentially, consoler. In college, I fell into step behind my Literature professors, gaining their approval by hammering out lengthy papers on less than familiar topics. And now, I spend a considerable amount of free time conjuring up ideas or punching away at my keyboard.
So, on this Sunday afternoon, as I sit under the covering a picnic shelter at my neighborhood’s park, I’m baffled as to why I can only write about my current inability to write. Why am I not allowing myself the therapy writing imparts? If I had a good answer, I would likely be writing about something far more interesting than my inability to write. Sometimes, though, I think we prevent ourselves from enjoying what we know is best for us. In my case, writing is freeing and fun and very much a tenant of my life, but the potential writing offers scares is frightening. Rather, the thought of me being an actual “writer” scares me. I believe my writer’s block is induced by my need to please others and the self-insecurity I have that what I write wont’ be good enough or entertaining or enjoyable. Right now, I am being my own worse enemy, allowing insecurity and imaginary expectations to dictate the feelings I have about myself and my ability to write. As I connect one thought to another, light is shed on a conclusion.
I love writing and I have the most to write about when I do it without being conscious of myself. When I sit with my keyboard and relay stories without thinking about potential readers or what someone might think, the best words dance onto the page. And that, brings me to an even better conclusion.
When I do what I love without being conscious of my ability to do so, but rather, enjoying the act of doing it, the outcome is better. Better because its pure and therapeutic and rooted in desire.
I think loving is doing what we absolutely enjoy, unassuming of our perceived ability to do it or, at times, not do it.
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