The Block

A few weeks ago, I resolved to become a much more disciplined writer. As practice, I determined that I would write a minimum of one piece of writing per day, no exceptions. Being the flexible taskmaster that I am, I did concede that the writing could be in a number of formats: personal (not to be shared) essay; essay to be posted on my blog; essay to be posted on my secret blog; or inspired poetry. (Ha! That last option was my inner voice’s way of taunting me; I once happened upon a tortured piece of angst-ridden poetry leftover from my high school days. The memory has inspired many, many jokes from my internal conversation partner.)

I will be completely honest: I have not been writing on my secret blog much, I’m not writing personal essays these days, and poetry has yet to fly – inspired – from my ink blotter and pen. It takes remarkably low powers of deduction to look at the dates of this blog and realize that I have – once again – miserably failed in my attempts to become more structured with my literary powers. What, I have been thinking to myself nearly every day, is my problem? Certainly I’m tired. Of course I have a full-time job. Yes, I have pets to care for and people to spend time with. I’ve fallen embarrassingly behind on my list of films to watch and books to read, true. Still, doesn’t everyone face similar time dilemmas? Yet I happen to know that there are people in this world who accomplish incredible numbers of things. They manage to hold down difficult yet life-changing jobs, parent exceptionally gifted children, volunteer for up to ten different organizations, be champion runners or swimmers or kayakers, and have the time to renovate their magnificent Victorian home on their own.

I am beginning to suspect that the problem may be that one’s levels of personal expectations are based on a curve, and that one can always find someone higher along on that curve that is making one’s own grade look shabbier than one might like. If this is the case, it might behoove us to simply eliminate all overachievers. Failing that, we may have to learn to do something terribly unpleasant like accept one’s own limitations. What a horrid concept. I, for one, shall endeavor to find the hidden flaws in any person that seems to have it "all together." I’ve found – in the past – that this sort of knowledge can perk one’s spirits up considerably.

Sigh. Once again, my weakness of character has allowed me to pursue a tangent that – for a bit – successfully diverted my attention from the sad fact that I am still not the disciplined writer that I strive to be. The sad truth of the matter is that I have, of late, found myself battling the dreaded Block Of The Writers.

The Block is a vile and terrible thing, capable of convincing one’s mind that not a single word is worthy of being preserved upon paper, and that the ideas in your head are too embarrassing for words (literally) anyway. If The Block tires of that particular angle, it often opts for the even more entertaining technique of refusing to allow any ideas at all to enter the waiting receptacle of your Literary Bucket. When in blockage mode, The Block positions itself squarely in the doorway between the Idea Room and the Reception Area of the Literary Bucket. There it waits, huffing under its breath in anticipation as it spots an approaching idea. The poor idea, oblivious, is nearly tripping over itself in excitement as it approaches the Reception Area. It knows that, once it checks in, it’s only a matter of moments before it is brought to fruition – finally able to realize its full potential in the written word. Alas, it is not to be.

As the eager idea reaches the doorway, The Block springs low and attacks, slamming the idea backward with a full-body shot. The idea is stunned and confused. The Block smells blood, and circles in for the kill. With an evil snicker, it jumps up and down upon the idea, reducing it to a quivering mass of bewilderment. The idea finds itself dazed, and cannot remember where it was going. It may remember – vaguely – a sense of purpose that it had moments before, but it’s lost now. With an odd look at The Block, the idea wanders back in the direction from which it came, mumbling to itself. Whether it will ever find its way back again is anyone’s guess.

With an enemy like The Block planted solidly in my brain, is it any wonder that I’ve struggled to bring my poor, abused ideas to literary life? There’s no doubt that they’re in there – I’ve never had a shortage of topics to think or talk about – but when it comes time to translate them to paper my foe is winning far too many battles. This cannot go on. I am mocking The Block even now by transcribing the details of our battle. Take that! I am declaring, in literary war terms. Stop me from writing this, why don’t you?