Writer Without a Cause

Being stuck between projects is like being stuck in an airlock. I’ve returned from one world and am awaiting entry to the next, but the doors are jammed on either side so all I can do is wait for inspiration to rescue me.

Time spent not writing seems wasted, but is it? I’ve wasted equally precious Sundays writing complete crap, emerging grouchy and frustrated from my room with x-number of substandard paragraphs to fuel my ire. Better to admit I’ve got nuttin’ at the start than force the Muse and end up with worse than nuttin’. Is it writer’s block? Could be—though I prefer to take the advice of Professor Ekkles and accept that writing is simply not meant to happen at this moment. It’s a Zen challenge because Sunday is pretty much the only day of the week when I can write from dawn ’til dusk, but if you don’t like the way something looks, change the way you look at it.

I may not be writing, but I can still be creative. Being creative doesn’t mean having a measurable output at the end of the day, either. I read more when I’m not writing. I listen to more music, take more walks, and do more pondering. (I don’t call it meditating because pondering doesn’t put me to sleep.) I nurture the Muse by poring over poems and paintings, by watching movies and concert videos, and, I confess, by revisiting my own work. It’s remarkably helpful to read something you wrote a year ago (or more); you can either see how much you’ve improved or be amazed at how much better you were than you thought. I usually see room for improvement because I am still evolving. What I wrote then I would write differently now, as what I write now will be written differently in the future. One thing is certain: the day I reach my potential is the day I quit writing forever.