Writers’ Block: The Opposite of an Advice Post

Right now I’m a walking (sitting) cliche. I’m in front of my iPad and keyboard in a coffee shop with a glass of mint infused water and a falafal wrap on order. Who even am I? What has city life done to me? I can’t afford to be here, I’ll have to cut back in some other element of my week for this, but here I am. I needed to be out of the flat to work today. Or that’s how I’m justifying spending £10 on lunch instead of making a sandwich at home, anyway. Basically, I’m here trying to unlock my inner creative powerhouse. Which translates to: Staring at my screen blankly and tapping away nonsense so at least it looks like I’m working. Perhaps that’s what everyone else here is doing too…

I’ve mentioned it before but I’ve been suffering over the past year (make that two) with severe writers’ block and general motivation loss. It’s one of the main reasons I moved. I’m a writer—it’s in all my social media bios and it’s how I think of myself. How I identify as a human being. So who the hell am I if I don’t write? Thinking about it makes me feel as though all the walls are closing in and I can’t breathe.

What if this ‘writing thing’ never pans out?

*Cue existential crisis.*

Before this year I was essentially a dick when people told me they suffered from writers’ block. I always told them to just write through it which, I realise now, is about as effective as telling someone who’s broken their leg to walk it off.

It may be already obvious, but I’ve never had writer’s block before. Not properly. Not the kind where you feel completely shut off from your creative self. I tried all the things—writing through the wall, going to different locations (hello coffee shop), I even got a copy of the Artist’s Way and began writing morning pages (a hipster way of saying ‘I started a diary’). I was still left staring at a blank page.

While I seem able to churn out these rambling blog posts a little easier now, I’m not able to get into the heads of new characters and make up fictional worlds. I’ve lost the spark that makes my creativity burn. I think it’s close to being rekindled but I can’t be fully sure. Dreams, no matter what anyone else says, are damn hard things.

I suppose that’s the point of this post. I want to keep letting everyone know that you don’t always have to be enjoying the journey to still want to reach that finish line more than you’ll ever want anything. You don’t care any less just because you are finding this shit hard.

Sometimes I wish I didn’t want this dream so badly. More than sometimes I wish I could give up. Yet I couldn’t give up writing any more than I could give up breathing and I know the result will be all the sweeter for the effort I’ve put into the fight. Although, that doesn’t feel like enough all the time.

Anyway, I need to leave this coffee shop now because I’ve been here for two hours and can feel the staff eyeing me in a ‘get the F out of here, you weirdo,’ kind of way…

Ever moaning,

Becca.

[Please let me know if there’s anything else you want me to discuss on this ol’ blog in 2020. I want to start drawing up a proper plan. I love a plan.]

 

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