Monday, July 20, 2015

Writer's Block

Writing always makes me feel better, so why don't I do more of it?  What is it about the fear of bearing my soul to the world here on this blog, when I unwittingly accomplish this every time I open my mouth? Have you ever heard the saying,"too much information" or the acronym TMI? Yeah, that is me.  I share too much, so what makes it unbearable to put it down on the screen?

I don't have a problem writing in my journal, where it is a crawl to put the words down on the page; side palm gliding against the white paper ever careful not to smudge the ink with my left-hand.  You would assume there would be an ease to typing it all out, no halts from my tired fingers grasping a pencil; sharpening it when the lead breaks or dulls; worrying about smudging the graphite unreadable.

Usually, that would be true. The words smoothly flow from my brain through the keys onto the screen. I was born to type. I have always aced my timed typing tests, the 10 key number exam and the programming computer assignments. Home is anyplace my laptop is. Not right now though. My fingers hover over the keys aimless. Imagine the little yellow birdies flying around the head of a Warner Brother’s cartoon after someone hits their head. I don’t even get that. Greyness swirls between my ears. All I hear is crickets. I sure wish he was the talented one on Time Square.

Ultimately, I imagine it comes down to my need for perfection.  I desire to write something clever: a short story, poem, limerick, pun, or joke. Pepper, my muse, alludes me. Am I delusional? Is Pepper even real?  She hasn’t helped with anything creative: painting, drawing, sketching, writing- nothing, in what feels like an eon.

Instead of writing, I read. Lately, it’s been Neil Gaiman's 2 paged short stories. What he does with a string of letters, forming them into paragraphs; mirroring whatever scene that shutters into his mind equals brilliance. I crave for that ability.  

However, reading makes me doubt my talent. Do I have the flair to attract readers? Debatable. Scratch that. It's deplorable that I would even consider myself a writer of any kind. My writing is amateurish. No wonder Pepper's locked her door and hid the Key. I don't deserve her anymore.

Anyone have a metal detector?