Please Kill Me,
Happy Monday men and women of the budding Manson clergy. So recently I’ve hit that pivitol point. The one that -once the smoke clears inevitably defines us as writers. The imminent frustration commonly known as Writer’s Block. (Why the build up when it’s the title? Because grandiosity becomes me #literaryfuckery).
Last week, and if I’m being honest the one before were particularly crappy -alot of distractions mixed with external drama created a cocktail of stagnancy (*James Bond voice* “shaken not stirred”).
Though my tendency to filter genuine emotion through vodka and light heartedness, makes that difficult to flesh out at times, know that it is true.
The fucking words man, even those shitty ones, refuse to fall out of my skull and onto the page. It’s as if I was a toddler trying to communicate with a coma patient (within myself #weirdimage), everything is simply lost in translation.
I will confess that I am adamantly against forcing it, perhaps that’s the issue. I often found myself cursing at the shitty things I wrote ( ergo , Donald Drumpf to… basically everyone at this point.)
I’m not quite sure what caused it. Although I tend to ignore my inner critic and push forward, this has been leaking into my life outside the page and thus I’ve decided deserves immediate and forceful resolution. Does anyone else sense a Top Ten coming on? ( Of course you do, I’m a junkie for easy validation, and LSD. HOW AWESOME IS LSD!?). But I digress.
Of all the research I’ve read, there are a few methods and remedies that’ve caught my eye. I’ll be likely testing all of them and reporting back to you all (MY ADORING PUBLIC), what I find works (and probably also what doesn’t).
So that’s it, splayed out on the table for you to assess, absorb, or insert rectally.
*Sidenote – Here are some possible causes for aforementioned (Doushey) Writer’s (Fuckin) Block.
1.) Lack of sleep.
2.) Poor time management.
3.) Persistent distractions
4.) Location of creation.
5.) Stifled thoughts. (Likely due to stress.)
6.) Inability to focus. (a.k.a Acquired-ADD).
Never fear, these are all pretty common things for a writer to tango with, and are often birthed in the complexity of having too many balls in the air (or your face, mouth, wherever. The point is too many balls) .
Lay void of angst, Uncle Gin Rummy is on the job.
Because only gravity (or I guess a Kardashian) can keep a brotha down,