How Does a Writer's Block feel?
Nobody really realizes, until it hits them and there's nowhere left to run.
It starts with the boredom. When the thought of compiling another set of words into a paragraph or prose section that makes sense begins to seem like a huge task, or when you simply cannot make sense of all the words that are flashing through your head. So fast, that you feel like reaching out and grabbing one, just so you could read it and take comfort in the feeling that you know it, but the horror strikes when you realize you don't really want to.
For the longest time, I tried to deny the feeling of being bored and burdened by the thought of my own words. I'd sit to write because a thought crossed my mind and I knew if I wrote it down, I'd get to keep it, save it even. But the words just wouldn't come. Typing started to seem futile. So I tried to jot down everything on pen and paper.
It would seem that the block doesn't discriminate between scented parchments combined with the solid feel of a smooth pen with a bold nip and the click of the keys with which you type along with the soft luminous glare of your familiar screen.
Changing tables with the idea that if my space was new, it'd shake something inside of me, force out those pent up emotions, make way for novel ideas. Resuming to write on my old table just so the dull edges of the much-used wooden platform would be able to comfort me into spilling the words I tried so hard to reach. Nothing worked. The inn, a cafe, a local train platform, a library in a foreign place we'd gone for a vacation to, my classroom, the rooftop, the canteen, the beach, an office, a friend's apartment.
Nothing seemed to work.
That's when it hit hard and hit home that this wasn't one of those things that could be forced, simply because one wanted it. For years I took my passion and ability to express with words for granted. For years I made fun of those who would procrastinate and not take on new projects or not understand the jargon and make fancy sentences out of them.
I was a writer. I am a writer. But I was a young writer with experience on her hands and the world left to conquer. I was to write a book, keep my blog updated, go on with my freelancing career and read and read and read till I couldn't anymore.
And one day I couldn't.
It was almost as if someone had swished a wand or the universe had played a cosmic joke and the one thing that would inspire me, made me wish I'd never become a writer in the first place. The poems wouldn't rhyme, the prose never sounded good enough, I couldn't come up with the words for an apt description ever and the world seemed to closed down on me every time I thought of writing.
I felt like kicking the younger writer's version of me on the hind side. It would have been a well-deserved, much required, highly satisfying kick. This wasn't a joke and this was not all me and this just wasn't supposed to be.
Putting this all into words had been difficult but necessary for a long time now. I have wanted to do this for a while but then again, it's funny how it all works. I am still not clear about where I stand in the battle against the block. But letting it get the best of you as a writer is not an option. Fighting it is also not very wise. It is just one of those things, I believe that has to happen for one to realize how precious it is, especially in its absence.
This isn't something I'd wish on anyone. The handicap is real and it made me appreciate the effort that so many people regularly face in making sense out of sentences that would appear simple to some of us but are not really to most of us. To be able to write and express thoughts without having to put due stress on our minds is a gift. It stems from privilege and passion both and to appreciate it would be the only way one gets to retain it.
Never take it for granted.
One of the reasons I "fell out of it" could have also been the fact that I'd take on too many projects. There was a time I freelanced for 10-12 hours straight, got on individual clients and started writing for a company, volunteered at another NGO as a content developer and was also sifting through my own academic assignments. That must have been the moment when it all snapped. Not picking up calls had become the norm. Social media had become just a tool for obtaining material for the next "piece". It wasn't sustainable and if you'd told that to me then I'd just have laughed on your face and went back to it.
The block is psychological, but it feels like an imposing presence. It feels like a physical barrier and that Is probably why they call it a "block". I wish I could tell you that in my dreams He looks like Grim the Reaper or Dracula or even like Darth Vader, but he doesn't. Yet he does feel like this shrouded figure, ever-present, to make you doubt your own self and think back on something 5 times, where you should have only maybe thought about it once.
I'm sure there are those who can deal or help one deal with this sort of thing in a better manner. But this post was never going to see the light of day anyway. So if you have the block and are looking for a solution, this wouldn't be the space I'd recommend. All I can assure you is that you're not alone and eventually, it will be over. A block cannot define a career, or change the fact that you do have the talent or simply make your potential stop existing. It is called d block in the first place, because it's not a "wall", it can be removed and eventually when one figures out the root causes, it dissipates.
This too shall pass.
P.S: I'm dedicating this post to Karan because he's the one who kept grinding me to get up and at it again. Thanks, dost.
It starts with the boredom. When the thought of compiling another set of words into a paragraph or prose section that makes sense begins to seem like a huge task, or when you simply cannot make sense of all the words that are flashing through your head. So fast, that you feel like reaching out and grabbing one, just so you could read it and take comfort in the feeling that you know it, but the horror strikes when you realize you don't really want to.
For the longest time, I tried to deny the feeling of being bored and burdened by the thought of my own words. I'd sit to write because a thought crossed my mind and I knew if I wrote it down, I'd get to keep it, save it even. But the words just wouldn't come. Typing started to seem futile. So I tried to jot down everything on pen and paper.
It would seem that the block doesn't discriminate between scented parchments combined with the solid feel of a smooth pen with a bold nip and the click of the keys with which you type along with the soft luminous glare of your familiar screen.
Changing tables with the idea that if my space was new, it'd shake something inside of me, force out those pent up emotions, make way for novel ideas. Resuming to write on my old table just so the dull edges of the much-used wooden platform would be able to comfort me into spilling the words I tried so hard to reach. Nothing worked. The inn, a cafe, a local train platform, a library in a foreign place we'd gone for a vacation to, my classroom, the rooftop, the canteen, the beach, an office, a friend's apartment.
Nothing seemed to work.
That's when it hit hard and hit home that this wasn't one of those things that could be forced, simply because one wanted it. For years I took my passion and ability to express with words for granted. For years I made fun of those who would procrastinate and not take on new projects or not understand the jargon and make fancy sentences out of them.
I was a writer. I am a writer. But I was a young writer with experience on her hands and the world left to conquer. I was to write a book, keep my blog updated, go on with my freelancing career and read and read and read till I couldn't anymore.
And one day I couldn't.
It was almost as if someone had swished a wand or the universe had played a cosmic joke and the one thing that would inspire me, made me wish I'd never become a writer in the first place. The poems wouldn't rhyme, the prose never sounded good enough, I couldn't come up with the words for an apt description ever and the world seemed to closed down on me every time I thought of writing.
I felt like kicking the younger writer's version of me on the hind side. It would have been a well-deserved, much required, highly satisfying kick. This wasn't a joke and this was not all me and this just wasn't supposed to be.
Putting this all into words had been difficult but necessary for a long time now. I have wanted to do this for a while but then again, it's funny how it all works. I am still not clear about where I stand in the battle against the block. But letting it get the best of you as a writer is not an option. Fighting it is also not very wise. It is just one of those things, I believe that has to happen for one to realize how precious it is, especially in its absence.
This isn't something I'd wish on anyone. The handicap is real and it made me appreciate the effort that so many people regularly face in making sense out of sentences that would appear simple to some of us but are not really to most of us. To be able to write and express thoughts without having to put due stress on our minds is a gift. It stems from privilege and passion both and to appreciate it would be the only way one gets to retain it.
Never take it for granted.
One of the reasons I "fell out of it" could have also been the fact that I'd take on too many projects. There was a time I freelanced for 10-12 hours straight, got on individual clients and started writing for a company, volunteered at another NGO as a content developer and was also sifting through my own academic assignments. That must have been the moment when it all snapped. Not picking up calls had become the norm. Social media had become just a tool for obtaining material for the next "piece". It wasn't sustainable and if you'd told that to me then I'd just have laughed on your face and went back to it.
The block is psychological, but it feels like an imposing presence. It feels like a physical barrier and that Is probably why they call it a "block". I wish I could tell you that in my dreams He looks like Grim the Reaper or Dracula or even like Darth Vader, but he doesn't. Yet he does feel like this shrouded figure, ever-present, to make you doubt your own self and think back on something 5 times, where you should have only maybe thought about it once.
I'm sure there are those who can deal or help one deal with this sort of thing in a better manner. But this post was never going to see the light of day anyway. So if you have the block and are looking for a solution, this wouldn't be the space I'd recommend. All I can assure you is that you're not alone and eventually, it will be over. A block cannot define a career, or change the fact that you do have the talent or simply make your potential stop existing. It is called d block in the first place, because it's not a "wall", it can be removed and eventually when one figures out the root causes, it dissipates.
This too shall pass.
P.S: I'm dedicating this post to Karan because he's the one who kept grinding me to get up and at it again. Thanks, dost.
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