writer's block

The Wax That Melts Our Wings

The Wax That Melts Our Wings

I’d say it’s what separates us, not from the beasts, but the bestial. Creating the future, renewing a learned past - these are reasons to strive. Writing for and with love, taking and framing an image, stretching new melodic skins onto old skeletons of song… it’s how we manage to fly. It’s how we stay you and me, not us and them.

The Terrible (Forty)Twos

The Terrible (Forty)Twos

The Terrible (Forty)Twos give you a lack of will to want to do stuffs. Any stuffs. They make one want to burrow under the doona and not come out until the champagne and red velvet birthday cake with forty-three (!!!) sodding candles* on it come waving past the pillow, tempting the grey roots and panda eyes blinking into the sunshine.

Many A Slip Twixt Cup And Lip

“writing about a writer’s block is better than not writing at all”

— Charles Bukowski, The Last Night of the Earth Poems

Those who read this blog (thank you, all three of you. You know who you are, and I love you very much) may have noticed a fall off in the number of posts recently. There's a very simple reason for this. 

I have been ill.  Wretchedly, horribly ill.

It's a common malaise. Many people suffer from it. It's endemic to those who profess to put words on a page for a living, it is heartbreaking in its severity and can cause symptoms as wide ranging as glugging wine straight from the bottle, headbashing on desks, throwing laptops across rooms and screaming randomly 'sod THIS for a joke!' and storming out of the room.

I refer of course, to (I don't even want to say the words)...  

Writer's Block. 

Sometimes the muse deserts me. Hell, she doesn't just desert, she goes on a bender in Vegas, wins big at the tables, gets comped a suite at Wynn and next thing I know she's married Prince Harry and I never see her again.  

For those who write, the need to put words on a page, or a screen, or on the back of an envelope is overwhelming. They need to get out of your brain somehow before it turns into the Woolworths parking lot on Christmas Eve. But that doesn't mean they are worth sharing with the world. And for me, the last little while has been a case of frosty wind making moan in my thoughts - every topic which has sprung to mind has ended up in the mental shredder. 

Until last week, when thankfully, discussions with two witty and wise friends brought the neurons back into a semblance of cerebral celebration. 

The relief at feeling words starting to flow again cannot be underestimated. And this is not about thinking 'maybe someone will enjoy reading this' - because quite frankly, I don't actually write for anyone but myself, and I think the day you do start concentrating primarily on what other people think, then the words will dry up for good. Nope, it was 'man, I am really loving just getting this out of my noggin'. 

And that is why this is a gratitude post. 

Gratitude for two people understanding that sometimes words - they don't come easy to me, to quote an old(ish) song; and even more gratitude that with a bit of verbal Drano, the blockage was no more. 

Whether others will be grateful remains to be seen, but as for me... 


In an annoyingly loud voice.