An author's worst nightmare. Inability to write. Fear of a blank page. Blind third eye. Incapacitated muse.
The writer's block.
A writer who claims never to have enjoyed of this condition, is a liar. We all have to endure it, and find our own ways around the brick wall that sometimes sits in between us and the keyboard. I am no exception.
How often does this happen?
Before, rarely. Today, quite often.
A few years ago, I had no obligations, no responsibilities, and no stress whatsoever. Back then, writing was easy. I'd wake up in the morning, open my eyes, all three of them, and look into a realm I'd never seen before. Words came easily, they were my friends, my companions.
Now, as I struggle with running a business, writing has become much more difficult. Stress and deadlines, the mere pressure of having to make money, often robs me of my ability to look through the hole in the paper.
Someone, I forget who, said that a woman can only write if she is completely happy. I thought they were wrong, but now I've changed my mind.
What do you do to get over the barrier?
I miss how things used to be. I miss writing. I miss seeing people dance in front of me, at my will, by my hand.
I am, after all, first and before all, a writer.
A writer who can't write. A paradox in itself.
Yes. And in every case, only one thing is in common.
The reason for writer's block lies within the writer. The writer is the only one who can help break that wall.
Blinded by reasons unknown.
No two cases are alike. Reasons for blockage have never been shared. They lie deep within the soul, buried next to unsolved feuds, secrets yet to see the light of day, truths yet to be admitted.
A writer suffering is the only one who can solve the puzzle.
Luckily, all writers are good at cracking riddles.
We all know what that means. You wake up in the middle of the night to the call of a story. You write it out, nod off, and the next day, obligations come in the way. You ignore the call of the tale due to the pressure from our civilised society, and when you return to it, maybe months later, it is cold, dead, unwilling like a wife left too long without attention.
Awakening it seems futile, so you leave it be.
It is the syndrome of unfinished tales. A story, like love, needs attention in order to live. Turn your back on it, and it will die.
A flower does not live without water. In our world, stories are flowers, and we the water.
If I didn't have work to do, you'd get two new tales within a year.