A shot in the dark.
I'm coming to round five.
Still no luck.
The ideas just don't seem to be flowing like they used to.
My fingers twist tightly around the base of the pen, turning my knuckles an eerie shade of white. Another barely marked piece of paper gets balled up and tossed into the waste-basket like the forsaken remnants of yesterdays lunch. A useless notebook filled with useless words. Nothing original. Nothing emotive. Once upon a time reverie and purpose used to gush forth like blood pouring from a broken vein. Now my thoughts lay dormant.
Nothing is good enough. Every possible idea seems beyond useless.
I consider, for a few moments, just giving up. Drop the pen, stand up and leave. Someone must be hiring. Perhaps I can work in a museum. Passing out those tiny little brochures and pointing schoolchildren to the dinosaur exhibit, their tiny fingers wrapped around the wrists of their parents, attempting to drag mummy and daddy across the linoleum as fast as possible as if the t-rex might once again go extinct if they don't dash to the other side of the hall like rabid little monkeys. No. I don't think I'm cut out for that. I don't like kids much, and the elderly on a dreary Sunday afternoon can be ten times worse.
I inhale deeply, letting the air fill my lungs. Exhaustion is taking over. The blackness of sleep slowly creeping into view. I close my eyes for a moment, toying with the thought of a solid nap. I can picture my pillow in my head better than any lover that ever existed. Whomever compared a soft pillow to falling asleep on a cloud was not far off. It only takes a moment before I realize I'm drifting off.
I snap my head back up into place, filled with determination and a hint of desperate anger. Anything to make me feel motivated.
Since the age of seven, all I've wanted to do is write. Something as simple as putting my pen to paper, something that brings me more pleasure than anything else in the world is now haunting me, baring down like a weight on my chest. Maybe I'm over thinking it.
Should something you love so wholly be so difficult? What is it I'm missing? Where is my inspiration?
Suddenly, in a moment of overdue frustration I slam the notebook shut and fling the remaining scraps of paper and crumpled notes to the floor. My feet hit the ground so hard I feel the pain reverberate all the way up to my knees as I storm off to the kitchen in search of another cup of coffee. The little white clock nailed to the wall reads; 3:24 am. My third break in as many hours and still nothing of use. I flip through the mail on the table while the pot begins to drip and in a moment more humorous coincidence than irony I stumble upon a coupon for the local National History museum. I let a small smile permeate my lips.
Things really could be worse. I just need a day off and a day out. I check for the museum hours on the back of the ad. Tomorrow seems like a mighty fine day for a history lesson. But first, some rest. I choose to abandon the pot of coffee and leave my workings in a wash of sudden darkness as I close my bedroom door and reach for the pillows like a lost child.
The night is too good, and tomorrow is another chance to screw it all up.
Have you read Peter Elbow's Writing without Teachers? According to him, you're doing the right thing by keeping at it even when you're out of ideas.
ReplyDeleteThanks, Jolly. It's now on my amazon wishlist. :)
ReplyDeleteWhen I can't think of write, more often than not I write about not being able to write. To me, it becomes and exercise and later on many of those sentences will be used in an actual piece.