Stuck

February 18, 2008

Through all the craziness that my life entails, it’s nice to know I can count on at least one thing: writer’s block. It happens every time I sit down with the goal of writing something. If I sit with a pen and paper, I know that before long my words will turn into doodles of frustration, crammed in the margins and bordering the top and bottom of the page. If I’m sitting at the computer, I might get through a few sentences before my creativity dries up and I’m left staring at the cursor, blinking at me mockingly. Yes, it mocks me. It seems to say, “Would Carrie Bradshaw get writer’s block?”

Just once I’d like to be one of the people who can walk into a Starbucks or sit on the Metra with a pad and a pen and write something. I mean really write something, not just pretend to be busy so the lady next to me won’t notice I’m intently following her recap of the breakup she’s going through.

Having writer’s block is unfortunately not contained to my spare time. It plagues me constantly. I could be working on an essay for school and be completely on a roll, but then I hit a wall and the rest of the paper isn’t what I wanted it to be; it’s as if the words are outside of my control, living their own lives, deciding when they want to cooperate and when they want to travel the world. I’ve even hit writer’s block working on this post! Writer’s block is the worst during an essay exam. I’m one of those people who will write half a page, delete it because it’s not flowing for me, and go back. That’s a little hard to pull off in a Blue Book.

And it’s happened again. I had a witty, insightful way to tie this all up, but it’s escaped and flown off. My only hope is that it will come back home when it gets hungry.