This is the closest I’ve come to understanding writer’s block. In the past, I would read of people struggling to find ideas or inspiration, motivation, time, patience, etc. but the solution to their problems seemed absurdly simple to me.
Sit down and do the work.
Start writing anything at all and gradually you will find that you are able to love and hate your way into something you enjoy by following your natural predilections. As with most other things, crafting fiction is a system of chaotic discovery, adaptation, and natural, as well as eventually artificial, selection.
And then, my orderly, simplistic, and seemingly ideal life descended into unmitigated chaos. When you’re being dragged through a violent abyss, it’s difficult to lift yourself into a sitting position long enough to catch your breath, let alone get any actual writing done.
I’ve always preferred to write seemingly superficial, absurd, supernatural pop fiction. The idea of conveying personal thoughts, experiences, theories, and philosophies through subtext has always been more appealing to me than the usual forms of literary proselytization. It’s easy to express a heroic journey fraught with danger and peril from the safety of the Shire. The journal of a man on fire is doomed to burn with him. It’s only from a position of safety and security that I’ve been able to truly find time for reflection and poetic exploration.
In my current state, whatever you want to call this place, it seems impossible to write little more than “ouch”.
That being said, this is me picking myself up so I can sit down. And when I fall again, I will roll enough to put that fire out, and when I’m able to finally find my chair, wipe the ash from my shoulders, and shake the smoke rings from my fists, I will write something seemingly superficial, it will be absurd and full of supernatural nonsense, and it will be proof that I am alive.
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