I used to have a writing blog a couple of months ago where I would post chapter of my new book every week. I was starting to become quite popular but then *whoosh!* Writer’s Block! Yay!
That happens. ↑
My readers were continually messaging me to upload the next chapter. As flattering as it was, it was also stressful. The more such notifications I got, the more stressed I got, and the more the ideas ran away from me. My ideas had become a crappy EDM song; a great build-up (OhMyGodThisIsGonnaBeTheBestBookEver) but a pathetic bassdrop (where are you now that I need ya?). Ultimately I shut it down. I know, heights of going low. I probably shouldn’t have taken Dillon Francis that seriously.
I started the blog again because when I told people I’m an amateur author, they would ask me for my blog and I would have to say I don’t have one and they would ask why and I would have to sheepishly explain the whole I-used-to-but-don’t-anymore-cuz-long-story story. So I decided to start one again and just pen down normal rants and opinions. Ya know, being the virtual lovechild of Suzette Jordan and Arnab Goswami. (I did not just say that.)
So I’m all geared up. I got an awesome idea to pen down. I take out my mobile phone with a smug swagger and twenty minutes later, voila! Debuted. But here’s the thing. It’s been eighteen hours since I’ve been typing and erasing this draft to come up with something good but I can’t think of a single thing. Zilch. Nada. Nothing. No, I hadn’t forgotten about this precious new venture of mine. I hadn’t been kidnapped. No one had threatened to murder me if I dared make another post. Simply because again, my old enemy had come to haunt me. Again. Fucking again.
Soo I’m going to rant about that today. Don’t judge me.
I don’t know if I can explain exactly what it feels like. It’s like when someone asks you to describe yourself. You know but you can’t put it in words. You can write big, deep, thoughtful quotes with words of more than three syllables but nothing captures the true essence of what you exactly are. From “I’m too complicated to understand in just ten sentences”, you get to the “Oh my god, what am I?” stage. And pretty soon you’re doubting your own existence.
I have clicked on every link on the first five pages of Google to learn about ways to overcome writer’s block. I’ve tried pretty much all of them, at least the ones that made sense. I’ve downed twelve cups of coffee and stayed up all night long. My lazy ass has taken countless long walks all evening, only to meet the same inspiration drought all over again. I’ve even sat in the middle of an empty field with the midday sun shining on my already tanned face just for that radical change of environment. But nope. Still nothing.
The only solution I’ve found is not even a solution at all. I observed that whenever I stopped thinking about what to write next or about that one line that would take my story forward, it would come on its own. Basically, inspiration is like that fussy kid. He’ll run away until you keep chasing but the moment you stop paying attention to him, he’ll be tugging your skirt in five seconds straight. As I said, not a solution. Maybe the only way to start writing again is to just stop.