The Writers Curse
I've begun to suspect this act - this will - this compulsory muse which I call "writing" is, in fact, the illusion of catharsis. Like a mirage shimmering far off on the horizon I gaze upon the unreachable waters of a quiescent mind. And far too often I've trekked through these shifting sands of unrefined ideas and abrasive conclusions towards that placid falsehood. "If I can just get words onto paper," I think to myself, "if I can just form these vague thoughts into enlightened views then I could navigate this landscape. I could find my way back to the present moment. I could be. Here. Now."
But the present moment is an illusive creature. It's capable of hiding itself anywhere. Everywhere. It's in the sound of a passing car. It's in the feel of the warm blanket pressed against my body. It's in the smell of the rain wafting through my open window. The present moment is all around me. Except for here. With me. In my writing.
Eloquently written. I salute you.
Yeah. I get 'writer's block' most of the time.
As much as I enjoy writing, I've got so many stories that are unfinished......a bit like life.....you never know what is going to happen.
I've started writing poetry now. It's a bit pretentious I'll admit...........wait................this thread isn't about me. How did I slip into that old ego trap?
Carry on writing old chum.....when the muse is with you.
My 90-year-old neighbor, a British American, is a published author who has taken his experiences as a Nazi hunter during WWII and put them into cat-and-mouse political thrillers.
His method? Write a page a day, a page a day, a page . . .
The instinct which creates the arts is not the same as that which produces art. The creative instinct is, in its final analysis and in its simplest terms, an enormous extra vitality, a super-energy, born inexplicably in an individual, a vitality great beyond all the needs of his own living — an energy which no single life can consume.
This energy consumes itself then in creating more life, in the form of music, painting, writing, or whatever is its most natural medium of expression. Nor can the individual keep himself from this process, because only by its full function is he relieved of the burden of this extra and peculiar energy — an energy at once physical and mental, so that all his senses are more alert and more profound than another man's, and all his brain more sensitive and quickened to that which his senses reveal to him in such abundance that actuality overflows into imagination.
It is a process proceeding from within. It is the heightened activity of every cell of his being, which sweeps not only himself, but all human life about him, or in him, in his dreams, into the circle of its activity. -- Pearl S. Buck
Writer’s block is a fancy term made up by whiners so they can have an excuse to drink alcohol. - Steve Martin
A writer is someone for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people. - Thomas Mann, Essays of Three Decades
What's the opposite of writers block? Withers muse? Anyway, it always seems to show up around midnight and, at what feels like gunpoint, forces me to write. My writing isn't an act of expression. It's a hostage situation where some deranged mad man has taken over my body hell bent on torturing my keyboard.
If I might share my own version of the same, Coded Logic, written many years ago when I was stumped. Yet, somehow, I got it on paper.
He has been reading, absorbing, the literary light from an age past, yet not one so far removed from his very own.
When, once again, ready to put his thoughts to paper, the writer shall do so, not with the puerile urgency of earlier days, but with a reserve and a deliberation more characteristic of his enlightened today. Levels of inspiration lowering degree by degree, he has been completely drained of any thought, any emotion, that would otherwise be siphoned from the mind's well of ink now stoppered. Such reflections and reveries must patiently await the gentle transfer to an empty page, given life, only then, by print.
Minus a clever mechanical facility, this man abandoned cannot prime the pump, get it chugging and, thus, replenish the mind's reservoir, which has been allowing only a trickle of scribbled mediocrity to escape sparingly.
For that reason, the crestfallen writer will away to the pages of other writers' books in hopes of discovering a light to replace his own failed.