Read • Contests • Groups • Learn • Forums • Store • Help
 

Can't Happen Here

I am afraid to be even saying this. I thought these words would never escape my lips, but they will and they already have inside my mind in the past few months. I can't keep lying to myself, and my friends. 1

I am spent. I am painstakingly fucked and I honestly do not know how to fix it. My mind, my once prolific mind I blocked. I write because every so often my mind sparks enough motivation to put pen to page, but I need the honesty, that my writing is not what it used to be. 2

This block also comes under commenting, and reading other peoples writing. I am doing the best that I can, but I know it could be a whole lot better. I look at some beautifully crafted, inspirational stories by my friends and I want nothing more to procrastinate. Avoid reading them, commenting on them. It's not because I am jealous. I am not that kind of writer. I just want to avoid everything, and I hate it with a passion. It is not me. I can't seem to get to me.3

My partner Daniel is helping me. He is a loving, understanding and compassionate partner. He understands where I am coming from. As you all will, and do, but what I feel- it feels like a solitary depression in which every day is being wasted away by the act of sitting down and writing and commenting. I can't do it. Something inside my brain, something that has happened to me has created this void and I am trying to pin point the exact moment when my passion turned into this horrible, depressing hole.4

I feel worthless of your time. My friends, my followers. I feel pathetic and wash-up especially when I know so many of my readers loved reading my stories. The stories I let loose with. The stories I wrote and neglected the normal, never being afraid to step outside the box and explore my horizons. I don't know who I am as a writer.5

Anyone who knows me, truly knows me, does know that to me-writing is life. It is my life. It is what my heart and soul is. It is each breath I take. Without it, I am nothing. Of courser I am something at the same time, but without it I loose apart of myself. A huge part of myself and every day without it the black hole inside me soaks me up like a sponge on toxin and wrings me exhausted.6

I don't want to have sympathy. I am not after the whole desperate, burned out artist cry for help. I just need to express myself, because I even avoid expressing myself in journal form, and that used to be one of the many things that kept me grounded. 7

I sit here, lay here, sway here; thinking, always thinking. Trying to push past this excruciating tumor of writers stump [No-Block] inside my mind. Fighting, always fighting to churn something out when all I feel is this pressure pounding against my head. It is eating me alive, killing me so very slowly, and I'm not sure how much longer I can go on living the lie that everything is alright inside my head. I am screaming, begging, pleading with the universe to wake me up. Open me up, scare me to death, make me feel something for writing that will make me pick up that pen at 3 a.m and start writing my next apocalypse.

Add your comment

    : Comment:

Comments


  • Whispers
    September 15
    Edit | Reply

    Relax, Sweet, you have nothing to worry about!

    We are so chillingly identical, like fraternal twins, as if we were spawned from the same egg, our conjoined hearts beating as one. Without writing, I'm a factory that is broken down and abandoned, my parts stripped, stolen, and discarded. My emotions are squashed like cigarette butts, the smoke floating around me as I wander through it like an angel in search of its halo, feeling around in the suffocating darkness for something to hold.

    I agree with Gezza 110%: You will overcome this. Right now, you're trapped in a glass box, fists slamming against the walls, enraged because nobody can hear your screams of frusteration.
    Terrified, alone, and depressed since the glass it swallowing every sound that bursts from your throat.

    Don't worry...eggshell-thin cracks are splintering the glass, and slowly, ever so slowly, the shards are falling away. Even in this journal entry I can feel your passion, a deep, intense longing for something that's just dangling out of reach; and that itself is fucking polished writing.

    What I'm trying to say is that you will never lose this talent. Nobody can ever rob the gift that God gave you, and that itself should be a comfort. Just sit back, watch a good movie, and open your senses. There is nothing to be afraid of...I'm here, Daniel is with you, and everything will fall back into place again.

    One thing I've noticed is that you haven't written an erotica story in a long, long time. Maybe that will ignite your flair again? Sometimes, when I have writer's block, it's because I'm secretly desperate for something, like sex, so I write about a sexual theme and I'm smooth sailing again. I'd love to write a lesbian story with you, even today if you'd like.

    Don't worry about commenting or reading other's people's work; I'm sure that your friends will understand. Just focus on yourself at this crucial time.
    I love you...remember that.

    ~ Serpentine

  • gezza
    September 14
    Edit | Reply
    I'm not altogether sure it is right for me to comment, as I am not your closest friend, and it might be too much of an intrusion into your personal space. However, I thought I would throw a few words in for you. I think I am writing this comment because I have been in a place similar to you (not identical - not possible - but perhaps similar).

    I have had block and I know others who have - and in my view the most prevalent reason for it is a personal distraction. It can be depression, or a tragedy affecting you, or something else that drains you of the good stuff, and so when you want to write, it isn't there enough as a whole to make you feel it is worthwhile. While I use the pronoun "you", I am referring to what happened to me. All I can say is that you need to work on the distractions (whatever they may be) and the rest will fall into place. Writers' Block has a beginning and an end.

    One observation (and it will probably sound naff): your journal is well written - and it isn't clinical - it has sensitive, personal narrative quality. I think this is rather ironic, and should be seen as reassuring.

    I have read your stuff and it is really, really good. As a new friend (I hope) can I say that you will be fine - hold onto your closest friends and journey out of the dark forest in your own good time.

    sincerest apologies if I wrote this out of order.

    Gez

  • Lady Pixie
    September 14
    Edit | Reply
    I always love every bit of writing you put out. I think you're fantastic. And I always appreciate and enjoy the wonderful comments you leave.
    I understand how the stump is though. I've been through it, and I certainly hope you get to feeling better soon.

    Here for you always!

Recent Journals