Last week I was bemoaning my writing woes. How I felt like I was basically smashing my head against a brick wall. It was less than fun. It’s not a nice feeling, sitting down to do something and then eight hours later discovering that you’ve managed to achieve the sum total of naff and all. So I came up with the cunning and ingenious scheme of breaking the 5,000+ word novella I’ve promised down into ten tasty, bite-sized chunks of 500 words a piece. I’m now sitting pretty at just a few hundred shy of 2,000. So I’d say it’s been a moderate success, even if only 2 of the 10 slated sections have been done. I’d like to attribute this moderate success to my ingenious plan, but in truth I think it’s because of something else entirely. I think it’s due to the fact that my life is profoundly ass-backwards. That is to say, ludicrously disordered and showing an arrangement grotesquely counter to the conventional.
Tag Archives: Writer’s Block
It hasn’t been a good couple of months for me creatively. Which is typical of life really, the one time of the year where I’m more or less getting snowed under with things to write and I more or less lose the ability to do so. I’ve spent literally days staring at my computer screen, trying to bring myself to do some proper writing. (Blogging isn’t really proper writing, it’s basically the writing equivalent of standing in the street shouting at passers-by.) And in that time I have achieved more or less nothing. This isn’t a case of writer’s block, writer’s block I can deal with, that’s just the problem of not knowing what to write. The situation I find myself in is not being able to bring myself to write. Just staring at the empty or half written pages fills me with a profound sense of ennui. That hopeless feeling of “honestly why do I even bother?” It’s hardly an ideal, and as much fun as cranking the stereo volume up to 11, curling up on the sofa with a cup of tea and hoping that the world spontaneously catches fire, it doesn’t really achieve anything.
If anyone ever tells you that writing is easy you should punch them in the face. Hard. If anyone ever tells you this they are either: a) lying; b) wrong, or; c) an idiot. Alternatively they could be one of those few, truly gifted individuals for whom words simply flow out of their minds and their hands like high pressure geysers of idea flavoured water. If that is the case you should still punch them, if only to make yourself feel better. People can harp on about how the struggle to write is a character building journey which makes the end result all the more rewarding. You should punch them too, because no amount of empty platitudes are going to detract from the fact that you and not them, still have to slog your way through to the end. It’s like telling a soldier not to worry, they’re fighting for freedom and democracy and justice and that in the end, it’ll all be worth it, to which the soldier in question is more than entitled to respond with “Well that’s nice and all, but I’ve just had both of my fucking legs blown off! You are not helping! Don’t just stand there! Help me stop the bleeding!”
My own personal foray into the world of writing really began with the inception of this crass and tawdry corner of the internet; my first tentative steps into the blogosphere. That was five hundred and ninety-nine days ago. This is blog post number ninety-nine and I will tell you now, it’s not gotten any easier and I still have no fucking idea what I’m doing.