There’s no such thing as writer’s block. That was invented by people in California who couldn’t write.
― Terry Pratchett
Here I am, sitting at my laptop, waiting for inspiration. I’ve been woefully unproductive in my writing for the past month. I can attribute some of that to the flurry of end-of-summer activities crammed into the month before the early start of the Nevada school year. There was camping, school shopping, and a bluegrass festival to attend. Yet I can’t lay all the blame on our schedule.
Perhaps it’s due to the various physical ailments I’ve experienced in the past month. My doctor found that I have an ulcer, prompting some changes in my lifestyle. Unfortunately, one change was eliminating my daily dose of anti-inflammatory medication to control arthritis. That resulted in a “trigger finger,” which requires a splint for a while. It’s awkward to type when your middle finger can’t bend. And it’s equally awkward to have your middle finger sticking up all the time. I apologize a lot these days.
No, I don’t think that’s the reason I haven’t been writing. Perhaps it’s the heat? We’ve had unusually high temperatures for several weeks and I feel quite dull and lazy. No, that’s not it, either. We have air conditioning and I don’t usually write outside. Perhaps I am too distracted. I’ve been editing the proof of a story about to be published, a story that has caused me angst ever since I wrote it. I dread its release into the world even though the journal’s circulation is small. There have been moments when I wanted to snatch my creation back, to say no, this one’s not ready to be read. But the edits are done and the story is no longer mine to protect. So I can’t use that excuse anymore.
Yet with all these possible excuses, I don’t believe that any of them are the true reason I’ve avoided writing. No, I’ve the uneasy feeling, the dreaded realization that I may be experiencing (whispering) writer’s block. There, I’ve said it. Oh, I’ve heard the rumors, the frightening tales of writers who spent years staring at blank pages, unable to type a single word. I didn’t think it would ever happen to me. I can start anytime I feel like it. I’m not as blocked as that other writer. I don’t have a problem.
Slowly, I am coming back. It’s baby steps for now. A paragraph of fiction, maybe an outline. A hastily scribbled poem. A blog post. I can do this.