Writers Block.

 

I wrote this to a fellow writer to help him overcome the deadly WB:

  I understand how you must be feeling and that your problem today could be mine, Sarah’s, Amanda’s, Ken’s, or Ron’s tomorrow (nobody is immune).  

  My suggested solution stems from my method of writing.   Some people need to have a complete story in their head before taking pen in hand.   Others jot ideas in a notebook and string them together like pearls.   Yet others decide which formula/theme, and the story line they intend to use.   They decide on the characters, their ages, sex, names, and psychological profile etc.   Only then do they start to write their story.

  I am in a permanent quasi state of block.   I haven’t got a clue what to write beyond the simple desire to write.  The act of touching pencil to paper, (I always write in pencil [with rubber to hand]), starts the process and releases words into my mind.  My hand moves, and I write.    From the words I have written come other words; a lot of the time what I write is drivel, but the important thing is that I write.   I have left a record, of an idea or thought process. I suppose I’m just doodling with words, which is why I write with a pencil and rubber.   I usually do not know what it’s about or where it will lead until I’m quite close to the end; when the inspirational idea hits me.

  Here is an example:

 ‘My grandmother had a cat’

I can’t guarantee how this will turn out - but here goes:

 

  My grandmother had a cat, a true tortoise shell with long bushy fur, but I’d never figured out until today why he was so universally disliked?   He was friendly, and climbed onto your lap, purring contentedly, then after a while you felt quite at ease stroking him.   She called him ‘Flash’, which I thought was a grand misnomer; a tortoise would have given him a close race.   He was so languid; he even jumped in slomo; like the six million dollar man.   What mattered was that Grandmother adored him and he seemed completely oblivious to the universal loathing he stirred up in people.   The mystery of his name was resolved, one day when I witnessed him catching a field mouse, in the garden.   One moment he was on my left; then he was on my right with a tail protruding between his teeth.   But I never understood why he was so universally reviled, until this moment; then it just hit me in a flash.

___________________________________

Here is where the punch line came to me.

 

He was ‘BOSSEYED’ I suddenly remembered, I was three years old, he looked at me with such malevolence that my hackles rose and I experienced deep feelings of loathing that persisted, I guess he had the same affect on everybody.   Poor cat moved slowly so as not to bump into things, except when he focused on something specific, the object of his desire, like food, or grandma.

.-…-.

Well that was a spontaneous illustration of how I break my block.

Now it’s your turn, break your block by writing for ten minutes, without stopping, on  any or all of the following subjects:

‘What I really hate is…   Have you seen me dance…   My first childhood recollection…   hats I’ve worn…   When I win the lottery…    

Think of some others and do, at least, one every day.

 

Note: the hi-lited line was added after the punchline came to me.