Blocked

I’m perched in a cozy chair on the deck staring out at the creek, dressed in three layers and comfortably tapping away at my keyboard while the sun dips behind the trees. The only sounds I hear are Rocco’s heavy breathing at my feet and the hum of lawnmowers in the distance. Fall is definitely in the air here in Michigan and I couldn’t be happier about it.

I have a million blog posts in my head, but for the first time in a long time am suffering from genuine writer’s block. I have things I want to share, say … but I just can’t seem to make sense of them. I can’t put pen to paper; I can’t string sentences together … I feel paralyzed.

Sometimes, the words just flow and my fingers can’t keep up with my crazy thought train. I end up tripping over my own words, having to go back and make multiple rounds of edits.

[Those end up being some of my favorite posts … when there is so much passion I don’t even bother with spell check or anything until right before I press “Publish.”]

Other nights, like tonight, when surrounded by such beauty and peace … I start at a blank screen. I move the cursor, then hit “back.” I delete each potential title and refresh the page, time and time again.

“No one wants to read about this,” I tell myself for one title. And then, “I’d have to censor my real thoughts about this,” followed by this, the last straw:“I don’t even know what my blogging identity even is anymore.”

Cue the sad violins.

After a half hour of this back and forth and woe-is-me rigamarole, I give up and give in to my surroundings.

I sit back, breathe in the crisp Midwestern air. I take in the smell of leaves and bonfires burning mixed with leftovers from our BBQ dinner. I listen to crickets and frogs talk and woodpeckers peck.

I kick my shoes off and finish off the bowl of black grapes. I enjoy the last sip of wine left in my glass. And I think about the promise tomorrow holds: a day off, just me and Luis — like the old days.

And so I begin to write. It’s not the post I envisioned, but the words do flow. Even on a night like tonight, when I can’t focus on a specific post to save my life … the very art of writing is still cathartic and beautiful. It leads us on unexpected journeys. It encourages us to be true to ourselves.

So while tonight my thoughts are jumbled, I still feel better for having put these thoughts down; for having written about my struggle with writer’s block.

It’s 9:12 PM and the sun has finally set … so I leave you with this quote I just found via the mighty Google.

“Writing about a writer’s block is better than not writing at all.”
Charles Bukowski, The Last Night of the Earth Poems

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