Today I reached the end of a long battle with writer's block. By long I mean 6 months. And by writer's block, I mean the inability to read or write a single word, new or already written by me. I was allergic to my own work. The funniest part is that I didn't even realize what I was experiencing was actually writer's block until a few weeks ago, and then it was like a huge weight had been lifted off my shoulders.
I could critique myself again! I could go back to what I had written, and acknowledge it for what it really was, which is halfway to good and partway to shitsville. I can now actually read 20, 000 of my own written words, highlight entire paragraphs, then gleefully and forcefully hit the delete button. I am free.
It still took me awhile after reading to really start visualizing again, and there was a little bit of forcing on my part that probably slowed me down as well. And I beat myself up a lot to account for what wasn't perfect, which is so stupid and typical of me.
I think the breakthrough, though, the actual catalyst for my renewed flow, was something simple and very typical, yet again. I'm eluded by the most obvious things sometimes. I went to the library. I sucked up the quiet, the mustiness, the cold, bright air. And then, to the soundtrack of Tchaikovsky and my tiny chiclet keys, I continued a conversation I began back in February, when I still thought I would be done with the entire manuscript by May. In the words of Danny Zuko, "Oh, come on Sandy, don't make me laugh. Ha... Ha... Ha."
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