Writer’s Block
I have a writer’s block. I think that when people talk about writer’s block, they do it incorrectly. They suggest that writer’s block is a thing that a person can have temporarilly, and that’s really not the case. Writer’s block is like arthritis; it comes and it goes, but you always have it hovering at the edges of your consciousness.
I listened to a recording today of a wonderful woman talking about genius. She said that our modern conception of genius, as something possessed by the person who created the work implying the genius, puts a strange pressure on those of us with an artistic bent. In trying to express ourselves, there is a pressure to create work that is of a certain quality, especially when previous work has set a standard for us to live up to. In ancient Rome, genius was considered a spirit inhabiting an artist’s place of work. Genius lived in the walls of the studio or the coffee shop or the in the trees of the park in which the artist worked, coming out to aid the artist in the creation of something truly amazing. If your work was amazing, it could be said that your genius was top notch, though you couldn’t really take all of the credit for the work. If what you produced was meh, you weren’t entirely responsible; your genius was of the sub-par variety.
I think something could also be said about writer’s block. I create some pretty amazing stories when I want to. This is especially true when I’m telling stories as opposed to writing them down. I’m an expressive speaker. I keep people entertained with my quick wit and my fun oratory style. When trying to write it down, though, my genius packs up his shit and heads back into the walls. His relief worker, Writer’s Block, comes out and pesters me for a while.
“Your stories are awesome, Kris,” the little goblin will say.
“I know,” I reply.
“Too bad you can’t get them onto paper quite right,” the nasty little troll jibes. “You might even write best-sellers.”
“Don’t you have a baby animal to torture or something?”
“That story you were telling people today, that one with the city that lives on the back of a giant tortoise? And those monsters that kill people by laying eggs that look like jewelry, but they hatch into flesh-eating insects? And those coffee-house literati are the only ones who can stop it? Oh, and everyone speaks 18th-century thieves’ cant?”
“What about it?”
“You should probably write that.”
“Yeah. I probably should,” I tell the troll. “But where do I start?”
“No idea, dude.” At this point the goblin tends to sit and start playing with its toes. He has very long toes. “It’s too bad though. That would be a great story…”
