My
brain has stopped working. Not entirely, that would stop me from
eating, breathing and talking, let alone typing. It’s just not
thinking. There are no thoughts and ideas knocking about, there is an
absence of pondering, very nearly no day dreaming is taking place.
I’m still staring at things, keeping up appearances as it were, but
that’s all I’m doing: staring. Inside, there is only void. A huge
cathedral like room, four dark grey walls continuing up to forever, a
single chair in a dim spotlight. Should I try to produce any
creativity, to force the forming of, of anything, all that happens is
the chair disappears and the spotlight goes out. And I panic. And I
strain to have something in my noggin. And my dark room gets darker
and darker until I can’t even imagine a room. People will know this
phenomenon as Writers Block.
As this
post suggests,
this is a bad time for Writers Block, what with all the writing and
that. The disease has eaten in to all of my projects, each has hit a
wall, not because of a lack of potential, but because of a lack of a
creator. Ordinarily these things pass, or cogs are loosened by
distraction. Not thinking about it usually facilitates thinking about
it, how crazy is that? Well not this time. This time, not thinking
about it means just that, it is gone and forgotten while I game or
watch TV, but the nothing is just as not there when I return. I’ve
had slight breaks in the fog, the odd line of dialogue here, an
almost idea that soon vanishes and probably wasn’t any good there,
but the fog then descends in force. I hate fog. Now, my initial
reaction was to carefully and logically attempt to work out what was
causing this mind blot, because previous to it beginning I was chock
full of some good stuff. Possibly. Nothing has really changed in
BobLand though, so that wasn’t much use. I’m moving soon, but
that’s a good thing. I’ll be self sufficient again, a grown up
man once more. I’ll be in charge of my destiny, able to do
anything. I’ll have a lovely new writing area, all organised and
easy to use, there will be a sharp increase in productivity – oh.
That’ll
be it then.
Pressure.
The self created kind. I mean, it could be that, right? Soon I’ll
really have no excuses for not doing what I want to, nothing other
than me to get in the way. Why would I put so much in the hands of
that idiot. So after I’ve moved, if I find myself sat doing
nothing, or spending all my time in the pub, and I catch myself
thinking ‘I should really be writing’, I won’t be able to blame
a lack of work space, or a need to spend a little time on my me, or
anything, because it’ll be totally up to that bloody me again. I’ll
have to do stuff. My brain agrees, it would appear, and in order to
circumvent any failure or embarrassment it is giving me one more out:
the ability to lay the blame on the inability to come up with
anything. Bastard brain. By now it should be well aware that I am
used to disappointment and failure and that I am keen to just try
some stuff, whether I triumph or not. Anyway, this scenario seems to
be the most likely – the block is due to a carefully buried fear of
not being any good at the thing I desire to succeed in – so now I
just need to shake it out and get on with it.
Phase
one is to leave everything alone for a few days, except the blog. One
has to keep ones hand in, otherwise one is never allowed to dip
digits again. Maybe I’ll pack a few things, ready for M-Day. I’ll
go out, have some laughs and some chats, spend a weekend with the
offspring, remind her her dads pretty cool, all things considered.
Might even shoot some things, digitally, with a variety of
hilariously over the top death bringers. Then, when it’s all
settled a bit, inside my face, I shall lock myself away and hammer
out many words until some of them make sense and are good, or not
rubbish. Whatever. Sometimes it’s difficult to think of anything to
blog about, anything that really grabs me anyway, but at least I can
always write about not being able to. That’s a precious thing, a
venue in which I feel compelled to produce something, and in which
that something can be on any topic I choose, it means I don’t
totally forget how to create a stream of self involved horse shit.
Horse shit in which I dip my digits.
Oh
stop it, it’s made of words.
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