The last post I wrote was about how much I enjoyed blogging. In it, I said that I’m feeling ebullient, and that I’m going to continue writing articles, because I have so much to say. I shouldn’t have said that. Now I’m jinxed. I have nothing to write about.
I have heard of writer’s block. I always thought that happened to professionals. Now, I find out that I have writer’s block. Does that make me a professional? Or was my premise flawed from the beginning?
Let me examine the circumstances, to come up with a plausible explanation.
I have nothing to write about. I have all these ideas floating around in my head. But they refuse to take on a concrete form, like a stubborn lump of clay. All my ideas are floating around in the cobwebs of my brain like debris after an earthquake, with no logic connecting them. I have tried coercing them out, but the harder I try, the more I lose my already tenuous grasp on them. I have tried relaxing, doing nothing, breathing in and out, but the more I relax, the more I realize that relaxing is not helping.
I’m like the dead body that went from limp to rigid, and post-rigor, back to limp again. Why? I don’t know. If I could figure it out, I’d write about it.
But like I said, everything I think about turns to mush. I feel like the potter who is unable to achieve consistency in his clay. Either there is too much water, and what should have been a stunning piece of pottery turns into mud-soup. Or, there is not enough water, and what should have been a stunning piece of pottery turns into mud-cake. Either way, the metaphoric potter is screwed. Why? Because you can’t eat mud-cake, or drink mud-soup, you can only eat the food that the selling of the stunning piece of pottery would have allowed you to buy. Does that make sense?
I feel like an out of tune guitar, that simply refuses to play the right notes, no matter how much you tighten or loosen the strings.
I feel like a dog chasing its’ own tail.
I feel like a Bollywood movie that actually makes sense, and leaves the audience dazed.
I know I’m screwed, when I’m reduced to implementing THE CLICHÉ.
I have often come across THE CLICHÉ, the venus fly trap that periodically swallows film students whole. Film students wrack their brains, trying to come up with a story they can turn into a short-film. And when nothing else works, they decide to make a movie about a couple of film students wracking their brains, trying to come up with a story they can turn into short-film. That is what I call a classic cop-out.
And I’m doing it right now. I’m copping out. I’m getting trapped in a cliché of my own making. I feel bad about writing about the fact that I have nothing to write. It is not fair to the very few people who actually read my blog. But I feel worse about having nothing to write. But does that justify me writing about it? What compounds the woes for this worse-feeling brain of mine is the fact that – I know. I know that writing about the fact that I have nothing to write about is a cop out. And I do it anyway. Which makes me the worst kind of hypocrite – a hypocrite who knows he is a hypocrite and revels in it.
A wise man once said “Wise things”
I take solace in the words of Heinrich Charles Bukowski who emigrated to USA and became Henry Charles Bukowski.
The man said:
“Writing about a writer’s block is better than not writing at all”
Thanks, Bukowski. You’ve made my day.