Writer’s Block

My pen and I have such an unbalanced relationship—dysfunctional in many ways.

There are moments when we are united and I cannot get enough of the euphoria that surges through my veins. The electric shocks course down my spine as I hear the modest strokes of my pen effortlessly gliding across the crisp page. There are moments when a blank sheet of paper thrills me to my core. It is my naked canvas, eagerly waiting to be caressed and dressed with my words—words that paint effulgent, effervescent masterpieces. The vulnerability of the intimacy I share with my pen enthralls me to the deepest parts of my being; I will not release my firm grip from its sleek shape until I have completely been emptied of every iota of artistic expression. It is as if my pen has a gravitational pull on me, wringing word after word from the depths of my heart and leaking them onto the bare page.

Until… until…

I am left gasping… gasping for air.

I am reaching…

I am clinging for control—for my words have been given life of their own and are no longer dependent upon this lowly writer. They exist apart from me.

Then there are those more frequent moments—unbearable time hanging in empty space—when I cannot muster a single word or phrase. The fear of saying the wrong thing in the wrong tone causes a creative constipation. I gingerly doodle my name across the blank canvas, hoping to coax any inkling of inspiration from the confines of my blessed pen. I am bloated with soliloquies, thoughtful theses, and romantic sweet-nothings, yet the powers of my pen seem to have forsaken me. In these moments I realize that I am one with my words. My identity is wrapped in the beautifully magical combustion of twenty-six letters—the alphabet comprises both my simplicities and complexities. Words are both my secret weapon and my kryptonite—they empower me, notwithstanding their absence cripples me and my will to function.

Most days I am void of adequate words to illustrate my deepest secrets, thoughts, or feelings.

So, most days I resist my pen. One would never expect to hear me confess this…

I hate writing…

…but the words won’t let go of me.



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