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Blank And Blocked
It's easy to look up at a hill or mountain and say "I shall climb and reach those summit". But, the actual climb and ascent isn't quite as easy.
So, finding my pen and blank sheets in a scattered room of an aspiring writer isn't the hard part. To sit down, to lift the pen and conquer the intimidating stare of the blank sheet; that's the hardest part.
Fifty minutes, an hour, two hours, and I've damaged thirty innocent sheets of papers with nothing to show for it.
My characters are ever so vibrant, loquacious and all gay but merely inside my head. I see their faces, their places, locations and plot all clear and brilliant only inside my head.
I thought writing and penning down my thoughts would be simple, easy, a walkthrough, nah, it's just quite like my mental climbing of the hills, easier said than done.
I ran into that alley, that tiny road called writers' block and oh dear, was I not only blocked, I got stuck. My characters, all but one abandoned me. The only one left was just as useless, the dumb novice. What could he say? We just sat down at the middle of that writers'block street staring at each other. No street signs, no traffic nor street lights, and no sense as where next to go from there. A few moments of lazing around on the ground, I got up to look around for a gap out, I took a few steps from our sitting point, checked a few cracks I saw but found them unyielding as well.
I returned to our spot, only to find my one last remaining character has died, out of loneliness I suppose, without a warning to me!
To be a writer, this is not being easy at all! Now, not only my characters, but my words, the whole bunch of community of vocabulary has taken their leave as well. Am an orphan with just pen and blank sheets. I am blank, blocked, dry and dried. But, I won't give up just yet!
© Mac-Kadicou
So, finding my pen and blank sheets in a scattered room of an aspiring writer isn't the hard part. To sit down, to lift the pen and conquer the intimidating stare of the blank sheet; that's the hardest part.
Fifty minutes, an hour, two hours, and I've damaged thirty innocent sheets of papers with nothing to show for it.
My characters are ever so vibrant, loquacious and all gay but merely inside my head. I see their faces, their places, locations and plot all clear and brilliant only inside my head.
I thought writing and penning down my thoughts would be simple, easy, a walkthrough, nah, it's just quite like my mental climbing of the hills, easier said than done.
I ran into that alley, that tiny road called writers' block and oh dear, was I not only blocked, I got stuck. My characters, all but one abandoned me. The only one left was just as useless, the dumb novice. What could he say? We just sat down at the middle of that writers'block street staring at each other. No street signs, no traffic nor street lights, and no sense as where next to go from there. A few moments of lazing around on the ground, I got up to look around for a gap out, I took a few steps from our sitting point, checked a few cracks I saw but found them unyielding as well.
I returned to our spot, only to find my one last remaining character has died, out of loneliness I suppose, without a warning to me!
To be a writer, this is not being easy at all! Now, not only my characters, but my words, the whole bunch of community of vocabulary has taken their leave as well. Am an orphan with just pen and blank sheets. I am blank, blocked, dry and dried. But, I won't give up just yet!
© Mac-Kadicou
