There it is. A looming tower of brick and mortar.
I have writer's block. For six months I was engaged in a writing frenzy, diligently typing up a storm of stories, then suddenly it was gone. All desire to write has disappeared. I have read every writer's prompt website I can find, read through many passages of my writing books for answers, taken a drive or a walk or read someone else's stories in the hope of finding inspiration. Nothing.
I decided the best thing to do is just WRITE. That's what blogs are for. I can wander aimlessly without purpose, throwing words down without a second glance or guilt or desire for profit. I am just writing for the sole purpose of writing, and I have to admit, it feels good to just RELEASE. All the words in my head come draining out onto this beautiful, vast white surface, creating an intricate web of words that no one else is ever likely to read. And that's okay.
Not too long ago I decided to reopen my book of dreams. And inside it was the dream to write. I have always wanted to write. In fact, there was a time that I craved writing almost as much as food. It was instinctual. As a child, I dreamed of living in some far away place, alone and writing. I never imagined living with someone, but here I am married in suburbia. But the important part is: David loves me so much that he wants me to write again. He knows that a large chunk of me was missing without it. And so here I am, without a real job, working from home, trying re-launch my writing career.
It's not that easy to get published. You do everything you can, follow every inspiration, pour yourself into every corner of white space and still it isn't enough. Every day you pray that this story will be the one that earns a publisher's respect, the one that will yield that other kind of letter, the kind of letter that doesn't start with, "we regret..." Every day you feel unappreciated with zero value. It's not the "we regret" letters that chip away at you. Not really. It's the absence of the other kind of letters that does it. When you constantly climb uphill, even when rocks are being thrown down on you, you can keep going for a long time. But if you never even glimpse the top of that hill, it starts to feel like a trek without purpose.
Perhaps I should just start writing for my own amusement again. Forget about trying to make money at this. Forget about ever being published and just write for the sheer fun of it again. For me alone. But I'm a bit of a show off. I guess I still need validation from others. Yes, I admit that. The first thing I do after I've written something, if I'm proud of it, is read it to David. Then, I send it off to a handful of friends or family members or post it on Scribophile for a full-blown critique. I so want to be acknowledged. I so crave validation from others. It's horrible, really. So that is one motivation for writing.
The other motivation is my desire to leave a footprint on this world before I die. I am 48 years old and have no children. What will I leave when I die? I never desired to have children, nor do I now. What was I born to do? I was born to write. I was born to share this gift of words with the world.
I never desired to be famous. Yuck. I can't imagine a more awful existence. Celebrities live in a prison. It's sad. They can't go anywhere or do anything without paparazzi invading their privacy, ransacking their lives. No, I never wanted that. What I do want is validation from my peers. I want other writers, specifically a publisher, to say, "You are a great writer." I won't really believe that is true until I see my name on a book someday or in a magazine. For me, that is the ultimate validation, and what I want most in life. Maybe I'll get there, and maybe I'll die without ever reaching the top of that hill.
For today, I am satisfied in knowing that I didn't give up. I wrote something. And writer's block be damned!
