One of my respected lit teachers (I took a whole bunch in preparation for my former future career as a law student) told me before that there’s no such thing as writer’s block. I’ve been trying to write a particular story and so far I have a trash can full of crumpled drafts, a two-page text that doesn’t exactly enamor me, and a blinding head ache.
What kills me is how much I looked forward to this. A month of waiting for this interview, three hours of standing around on set, and another two hours of transcribing. The best stories are ones that write by themselves and I thought the words would come crawling out of me. And now we’re here. Stuck. With a deadline less than 12 hours from now.
This pathetic little excerpt is the best explanation I can come up with why there’s a nearly monthlong gap between this post and the last. I’ve been ridiculously busy and occupied with attending events, writing about them afterwards, then oiling up for the next cycle. I haven’t had time to read, haven’t had time to exercise any creativity. Even my quilting project is put on hold (:( as well as my coaster beading). Normally, it’s a good book that keeps me motivated, rich, and just bursting with words.
How ironic is it that as writers we are so often sorely deprived of the one activity that inspired us to be who we are in the first place: reading.