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Writers' Block

I have run out of things to write about.

Oh, god, the sentence, the thought, the absolutely blasphemy of an idea, the thing every writer fears – Writers' Block. I say the name with terror.

And yet, having escaped it's deathly throes for so long, I appear to have come up against it's mental block. I must beg to disagree with the name 'writers' block', though. It's nothing like a block. It's not something easily visible, bright orange and tall, like a road block. It's sort of a dimming awareness of the emptiness of your ideas. As if someone had poked a hole in the bottom of your imagination bag while you were busy falling in love, and saving the earth, and all those lovely, romantic things, and now it's three months later and all the ideas have fallen out of the bag. I am simply left staring at an empty page, wondering what on earth I should put down on it.

Oh, but even worse. I can put down words. Words, words, words. Too many words. Too little words. Not GOOD words, but words that make me cringe, make me shy away from their unlikely depth. What depth do they have? None what-so-freaking-ever. Ugh. It sends shivers up my spine just thinking about it. The only thing worse than no words at all are bad words. Bad words lead to bad sentences, which lead to bad paragraphs, which lead to bad pages, and then you have to have to preform the demoralizing key stroke APPLE – A – DELETE. It's like the walk of shame for the goalie to retrieve the ball from the back of the net after missing the shot. (Especially when you get your hair all tangled in the net.)

I've found something even more blood curdling, though. All I can think about is love. Love, love, love, love, all you need is love. All you HAVE is love. All I have is love. And yet, I have no more love. I seem to have hit the writers' block of love. For so long, I've entertained that lovely sort of, heart racing, palms sweating, making yourself look like an idiot because you're stuttering so bad type of love. And someone has poked a hole in the bottom of my heart, and while I was busy mooning away over the deepness of his brown eyes, and his most recent joke, all of my love was leaching out of my heart. And I woke up one day and it was all completely gone. My heart no longer raced, my words no longer creaked, and my head was no longer completely infatuated with the thought of him.

So why, then, is all I can write about love? All I can think about is finding some alternate method for my heart-racing-ness. I've tried running. I love running, but I just can't bear to bring myself to the sprinting type of running, the one that could make your heart race like a summer sunshine, the way he smiles. Plus, the sprint triggers my gag reflex way too often. Running, for me, is a slow rhythmic sort of thing. You have to work your way up to it.

I tried God, too. Everyone in my family believes in God. None of them are uper-duper religious, like most of my friends' families, but it's still sort of there, in the background. I feel quite outcasted being the only atheist. Not that I really want to be atheist, I've just never really understood the concept of God. And every time I manage to ask someone, they either say that it'll come in time, or storm off in a huff, thinking I've insulted them. I do deeply apologize if I have, in some way, insulted you, I don't mean to at all. I just am trying to understand. I asked one of my friends, Tanya, about it. We've sort of, kind of touched on the subject before. And when I say touched, I mean gee, is she touchy about it. Not that I'm judging her, but the end of our conversations usually end with her saying, 'IT JUST IS!' in a very agitated tone, and leaving me even more puzzled than before. I figured that was not a good road to go down again. I think our thought processes are too different for us to reach a consensus.

So I tried my other friend, Sophie. You never would've thought, looking at her, but she is a firm believer in God. She tried. Really, truly, she did, and I appreciate the effort. She got some absolutely lovely analogies going, but at the end of the conversation I was still utterly baffled. Next week she's taking me to her church and dragging me to speak with her pastor. I wonder what his take on me will be.

But God, He still doesn't manage to quite capture my attention. I think it's because the concept is so translucent, at least to me. My thought process is much too much, “Prove it!” to come to a clear, concise understanding of Him in a few conversations. Plus, I have a feeling I'll lose all my friends if I keep bugging them about it.


After that, I decided to immerse myself in school work. I've always been an A+ student, with little (sometimes no) effort on my part. I have no idea why. I seem to have heard half of the things they were teaching before, but I have no idea where. It's a great mystery, that I hope will never be solved. (Because then I'll have to actually learn something new!) But, the other day, I decided to actually try in class.

I managed to confuse myself on concepts I had understood only the day before. I didn't understand my math homework, for heaven's sake! Math! Me! I'm a math whiz. I have never, ever, not understood the homework. It was demoralizing.

The whole not understand math probably contributed to this decision: I decided to slack off again. Once I did, I understood the material better, and actually got graded higher on the things I hadn't tried on. I was entirely annoyed with my teachers, but gave up on trying in school. I have a good system – why ruin it? There goes that line of interest. Joy. Now what to do?

I have run out of things to write about. And still, in the back of my mind, is a story about a knight at a super market. But that story has already been written. Twice. In the back of my mind, there lies a memory of my one true love. But that story has already played out. And it doesn't work out. I have t.v. shows to watch – but I have no t.v. I have things I could cook – but my mom is already in the kitchen. I have piano songs to play – but my dad is sleeping. I have stories ready to be written – but I have no words.

And, in explaining that, I have written many words, many sentences, many paragraphs, many pages.

Ha, writers' block. I beat you.





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