Dear Imaginary Friends,

writers block

 

I’m not sure if I’m still suffering from writers block, or if my imaginary friends are quiet.  Or possibly I’m attempting to write stuff that I’m not meant to write?  Is that even possible?  Can a person only be able to write one form of writing about certain subjects & the rest are completely off limits?  Would Stephen King be able to write romance?  Would Nora Roberts be able to write a thriller?  Is it possible for James Patterson to write a science fiction?  (If any of them have, it’s throws my theory out.  I am not well read in all of their books.))

But as I sit here I think of the novel I’ve been working on since November of 2012 & I wonder to myself, am I trying something that is impossible for me to write?  People always tell me that I am capable of writing anything I put my mind to.  But am I?  Honestly.  But then I wonder even more than that, am I really the writer I think I am?  I feel like if I were I would have more writings that are finished.

Maybe I am still trying to find excuses as to why I don’t write more.  Last night I opened up my novel & wrote three paragraphs & then when I was finished, I sat back in my chair & wondered if I even liked what I had wrote.  Do all writers go through this?  I’m almost to the point of cutting off a finger.. or two.  Pull a Picasso and cut my ear off.  But instead of whatever he did – I would put mine in a box & mail it to someone.  Who?  I don’t know.  Who on this planet would want my ear?  I’m joking – mostly.

Honestly, at this point, I have no idea what I’m even talking about.  It’s seven o’clock in the morning & I haven’t been to sleep.  My head is foggy & my body is exhausted.  All I want is to sleep – however, sleep isn’t my friend at the moment.  I know that throughout the day my mind is still on the same thing.. writing.  I still carry a trillion pens, & fifteen hundred notebooks in my purse.  I think if I were to dig I’d find a notebook in my car.  You know, just in case.  I still find myself going out in public with friends and writing on napkins when something hits and I need to write it down.  I still find myself watching or reading something thinking, oh yeah, I need to make a note of that.  It could come in handy for something I could write in the future.  All of the articles I read of writers & authors, they all sound like me.  Everything they say they feel or do – I find it’s exactly what I do or feel.  I love to write.  ((Even simple things like a blog.  Even though I don’t write as much as I used to.))  I just can’t always seem to get the words flowing as easily as I did.  Like when I was between the ages of seventeen & nineteen.  To be quite frank, if I had started a novel at seventeen, I would probably have finished it.  But at seventeen, I had no idea what I liked or wanted to do with my life.  I didn’t realize writing was it until I was in my twenties.

I just need to take it day by day.  One day at a time.  Day.  By.  Day.  I can’t expect the novel to write itself or me write it in three days.  It takes time.  I even know this.  Common sense.  But there will always be a part of me that believes it shouldn’t take YEARS to write a novel especially if you already have the outline of it.

I have faith in myself, always have – I will finish this novel.  When?  That I have no idea.  But I will.  Hopefully before I’m thirty, but at this rate, I honestly don’t know that.

I have always been good at working through problems.  That is what I have right now.  A problem.  So I will trudge on and work through my problem.  Hopefully, I will fix it soon.  But I could always write more of these, at least then I know I’d still be writing, even if it isn’t on my story.

Luck.  I need luck.

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Write Through It.

I am attempting to write through this writer’s block.  Yes!  The writers block I have had since November of 2013.  No!  I’m not kidding.  It’s beginning to grind my gears to the point of wanting to scream.  

The last few days I have wrote a few stories.  Nothing big.  But stories nonetheless.  It still takes me a bit to do it and I have cheated a little with writing poetry.  But small is better than nothing, correct?  I may be kidding myself, but I am trying.  

I decided to give a new writing style a try.  See if I get the creative juices flowing.  What style?  Limerick.  For non writers out there that is scratching their forehead trying to remember from school what a “limerick” is, let me enlighten you.  A limerick is a five-line poem with a strict meter.  The rhyme scheme is usually A-A-B-B-A. Lines one and two end in the same rhyme.  Lines three and four end in the same rhyme.  Line five ends in the same rhyme as one and two.  

Example: 
There was an old man with a beard,
Who said, “It is just as I feared! – 
Two Owls and a Hen, four Larks and a Wren
Have all built their nests in my beard.”
       -Edward Lear, “A Book of Nonsense”

I have yet to actually try and write one.  But I plan on it.  Tomorrow.  Maybe?

Unfinished.

My issue has always been finishing a piece of writing.  I set out with the greatest idea I have come up with in a while.  I sit writing for hours, days, or even months.  Get almost to the end && decide that I need more than that.  So I then attempt to write more on something, that probably doesn’t need it, get irritated && never finish.  

Looking through a journal I have it just irritates me as to how many short stories I have started but not finished.  Or even the book that I started that I am still not finished with.  I understand that some writers take years to complete a book.  But they usually write daily, page by page, chapter to the next – I haven’t wrote on mine since November.  I haven’t done anything since November.  

I feel like I should be doing something.  Anything.  But i’m not.  I haven’t.  Does that mean I may not want it as much as I think I do?

I don’t have writer’s block.

I don't have writer's block.

At least I wish I could say that – but sadly, I can’t. My block is so bad this round I can’t write, read, or even jot down a shopping list. I sit around day in and down out thinking about my novel that I didn’t finish when I wanted, but cannot seem to write a word.

Honestly, how hard is it to jot down a shopping list? Eggs. Butter. Milk. Bread. Same thing every time I get groceries. But now, nothing. It’s like my brain has shut down and unable to be restarted.

I have been staring at a letter I have wanted to write for nearly a month now and all I do is write down the date & time, then nothing. A book I have been waiting a year to read, “Gabriel’s Redemption” by Sylvian Reynard, – I have read one chapter.

I really need to fix the issue I have.

How Long Does It Last….

So I have sat down a few times to write & still nothing.  My novel just sits in my laptop collecting dust.  Is that even possible?  Internal dust from my hard drive.  But now I question whether or not I’m able to finish it.  It was a part true story of something I was doing – a guy I liked.  But the other day I ended it.  Just told him I am done with it and I’m sick of the crap.  That he isn’t what I wanted.

I thought about keeping it going and just have her find herself.  Know what I mean?  Like.. her end it in the story like I did in real life but then have him show up.  Is that retarded?  Y’all haven’t even read the story.  What is it about?  It’s about a girl who, ever since her Uncle was locked up, has been a pen-pal to prisoners.  Give them something to do & look forward to & have her something to keep her writing…. up to date.  After nearly 10 years of having bullshit thrown at her, and lie after lie she finds a guy.  Nice.  Cannot find bullshit by any means.  Starts to fall.  But doesn’t understand how that is possible through letters.  …now apparently after nearly two years of writing & what not she ends it.  Goes on with her life.  & I’m thinking about letting him just show up at her house. ((Mostly because I don’t want to lose the ending.))  I might even make up a relationship or two – he still has five years to go.

Sounds stupid doesn’t it? 

I’m almost done with it. 

I guess we’ll see, huh?