Blocked

I am uninspired; everything I write comes out wrong, the complete opposite of what I want. I feel like one of those blow-up dolls. that's been filled with air, but just as quickly, pin-pricked and left to flop over my empty, plastic self. I hate this state of being.

It's not so much a void of ideas, as it is an inability to properly execute them; almost as if someone's provided me with all the tools and materials I'll ever need to build a house, but every attempt ends with my fingers nailed to a board. What is wrong with me? My creativity is locked in a rank dungeon, somewhere inside my head; my brain is holding it hostage and I don't even know what the ransom is, let alone how to obtain and offer appeasement.

I refuse name this “condition,” I will not give it that kind of power. I'm not listening to that screechy little voice, just beneath consciousness; the one insisting I've lost my ability to communicate. Do you hear me, little voice? I'm not listening to your shit! I don't think it's working though - whenever I attempt a writing exercise, I end up in Seattle when I was aiming for New York.

I didn't want to craft yet another fragment of work that goes nowhere. I'm already feeling hemmed in by my frustrations, now I'm supposed to create something worth of workshoping and rewrite? Of course, that pressure left me feeling more paralyzed than a day-old corpse, so I didn't write anything . The more I didn't write, the worse I felt; the worse I feel, the more unsure I become of my work.

What do I do when I “can't” write? Lots of things: I mope, oversleep, get cranky and snap at the people with whom I live; I panic and think about all the things I haven't accomplished. I stress about my lack of financial solvency, my health, my (non-existent) love-life , the cruelty of the world, my dead dog, my dead cat; I look for inspiration in music, in books, in articles, in other artists, on TV, in the garbage. After exhausting every other possibility, I clean - obsessively. I binge on purging; going through my possessions and putting almost everything in a “to be given away” pile, all in an attempt to simplify, simplify, simplify.

It is only then, sitting in a room of barren walls, empty bookshelves, stripped bedding and still feel overwhelmed, that I realize the only cure it to plant myself in a chair, pen in hand, blank notebook in front of me and write until I break through the wall of my own stubbornness.

Maybe the problem is as simple case of being too fixated on the end results, rather than letting the piece take itself wherever it wants. Perfect example: I thought writing this would be as fruitful as asking a turnip for blood, but it's turned out better than a lot of things I've written lately and I'm rather satisfied results. Who would have guessed?