What’s on the Bookshelf: A Time to Write

I’m a writer; I’ve known that since I was a kid and would make up stories to tell myself at bedtime. I love poetry, prose, short stories, novels. I love to read them; I love to dream up my own. But, I’ve been in a jam the last year and half.

I haven’t written more than a handful of poems or short-snippets of things for the G10 group. In fact, the latest G10 project is only a specific-themed short story, but four pages in, I find the copy Gothic and dark instead of the humorous turn it’s suppose to take. I groan every time I open the document and am giving myself another week before I will be forced to gracefully bow out of the project. The thought irks me, but at the same time, I don’t feel like incurring a migraine from constantly butting my head against the wall.

This stall I’ve been experiencing is really driving me nuts. There are plenty of stories rolling around in my brain — the G10 project, a short story and even a series of novels. The stories play like a movie and I hear the words, but when I open up my laptop to put the visual into print, it slips away and I cannot find them. The brain-to-fingertip communication feels jumbled, and because of it, the staring contest with the blank page has turned into a test of wills. The blank page has won each and every session, and I have to wonder if the program is plotting world domination or at least domination of my laptop. It has taken over my world.

Blogging comes easier; I guess because it’s a free-flow of words. I’m writing as they come, and I seem to have no issue getting my brain-to-fingertip connection to work properly. So, what’s the difference? Blogging doesn’t challenge me. It’s not an alternate universe that I love and that feels like it lives and breathes. Blogging — there is no danger of people telling you that your creativity has fizzled and died — the criticism of original work feels like they’ve murder a dear child. Characters live and breathe for a writer, and I guess my disconnect is partly a way to keep them sheltered from the world at large. Creative writing also takes much more because you want their world to be perfect, for your character and your audience. And therein lies my problem.

I really need to let it go and just let the words come like they do when I’m blogging, but I find myself just staring at the blank page willing the words to appear as if magic. It would be nice to someday share the magic of my mind with the blank page, and someday, the world.

Until that day, I’ll continue my war with my blank page and keep telling myself: It’s time to write.