For the past year I’ve been held hostage by writer’s block, and by “writer’s block” I mean myself. I’ve (metaphorically) held a gun to my head and screamed write you fucking coward! I worry that my thoughts are like lightning bugs trapped in a jar: they need to be released, articulated, or else they’ll rot. But I can’t pistol whip myself into creative production; all of this self-abuse hasn’t helped me perform a single definitive act. Here’s a truth that I hate: if you want something too desperately, it flees from you.
Fanny Howe says that decorating and perfecting any subject can be a way of removing all stench of the real until it becomes an astral corpse. Meaning, over-analysis is lethal.
So what’s a girl to do? Step 1: remove gun from head. Step 2: acknowledge the fine line between self-reflection and self-absorption and try not to cross it. Step 3: not to sound new-agey, but I need to leave the door of my mind open, which feels risky--what or who am I inviting inside? Hopefully les mots juste will wander in. And if that doesn’t happen, I’ll need to find God or start drinking more than I already do: whatever, as long as there’s movement in any direction, up or down.
Well, this was cathartic. Thanks, blog.