Sometimes the only thing I want to do is sit down with a blank piece of paper and a fresh pen and write until my fingers break. But each time I try, lately, the blank paper has become less of a promise and more of a threat.
It used to be like a world of possibilities opened up every time I put my pen to the paper. I have all of these ideas in my head – all of these characters vying for attention, ideas that won’t leave me alone. I want so, so badly to write them down and free up some space in my head, but I can’t seem to make anything work lately. This – not being able to communicate, not being able to get my thoughts into an order that makes sense to anyone but me – isn’t an uncommon feeling for me. It happens all the time in reality. I have a hard time talking to people. But it doesn’t happen so often with my writing, and it doesn’t ever happen for as long as it has been. I haven’t been able to write anything that I don’t want to chuck out a window in months. It’s extremely frustrating, like someone hit the mute button on my brain and detached my hands from my thoughts.
Hopefully, I’ll be able to push past this soon. All of these words are pooling up behind the dam in my head, waiting for that one crack in the wall’s defenses. I’m a little worried that when I get started again, I won’t be able to stop, but it’s got to be better than this.
