Given the professional writing career path I’ve been working for much of my life, the frequency and severity of my writer’s block is rather embarrassing, the mental equivalent of often forgetting to wear pants. It’s not such a problem for those things that simply MUST BE DONE -- deadlines have a strange and wonderful way of clarifying my thought process, which I assume is what drew me to journalism. When I have no choice but to write, I write. Problem solved.
It’s the other stuff, the stuff without deadlines, that stymies my fingers. I write all day within the confines of my head, tossing around ideas and plots, phrases and descriptions, characters and assertions, but somewhere between the crenellated surface of my brain and the ridges of my fingertips there exists a wall that, like the pop-up barriers embedded in D.C.‘s security-crazed streets, leaps into action to stop the flow from idea to pixel.
For some reason, jotting down notes on a idea with a pen and paper comes easily despite the wall. I’m currently swamped with small yellow scraps that contain sentences that came to mind, titles it would be great if I had an article to go with them, concepts for stories, and ephemera that could be worked into a blog post.
I never know exactly when I’m going to find my way around the wall; some things I still want to write have never made it past. Sometimes, like now, I plow my way through and hope that something else with follow along, that if I just simply engage in the physical act of writing something then the wall will be overcome. Don’t think about doing it, just do it.
All of which is an overly ponderous and navel-gazing way of saying sorry for the light posting. I’m sure I’ll have another burst coming along shortly. I have some right nifty titles all lined up, if I can just figure out the right thing to write for them.
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