Writer's Muck

photo by: fjordaan

every time. EVERY TIME.

I canNOT seem to be able to start a project without first spending a day or two suffocating from a thick mud of frustration!

I sit. I stare. I turn the keyboard on, then off (cats keep walking on it, messing up my Sibelius score), then on again. I play a note. Then another. I'm staring out the window.

Is it snowing? It's snowing in NC. And in VA. Why not here? It never snows there, it should snow here. I want it to snow. Why isn't it snowing?

Back to the score. I listen again.

This sucks. No it doesn't. Yes it does. What's missing? Let's write about it.

I open my journal.

Should I brainstorm with a blue pen? Too normal. Purple? No, the last page is in purple. Green and black? Perfect, I see Blaine as a very green and black character.

I'm drawing green and black stars in the corners.

Soon I'm listening to every tune I've written, critiquing them of course. Then in attempts to get my self esteem back up, I check every online outlet I have. Hotmail email. Yahoo email. Website email. MySpace. Facebook. Website stats. Blog stats (which have been extremely high today thanks to WFA linking to two of my comic related posts!).

Ugh! How narcissistic can I be?!?!

Back to Blaine.

What's missing? Why do I have so many 2 measure solos? Maybe if I watch another episode of X-Files my mind will clear and I'll know what to write.

...

The thing is, it's not writer's block, exactly. More like writer's muck. I know the solution is in my head somewhere. And I know it's gonna come, and then I'll write like mad for the next 48 hours, forgetting to eat, ignoring phone calls, ignoring the Internet, getting up only to pee. But every time, EVERY TIME I take a break from writing, even a small one, I have to pass through this day or two of sitting and staring, waiting for that special something to click into place, and waiting for the hours to pass so I can justify going to bed.

It's like a trial I have to endure before the muses will grant me inspiration to renew my writing.

No, it's an Amazonian contest I have to win so that the Gods and Goddess will bestow me with the gifts I need to make peace in man's world (no wait, that's someone else.)

I'm like an old boom box, drifting in the muck of the Thames, CD tray open to ideas, idly passing the time until I eventually bump up against the shore, and can move on.

Lesson to be learned? Never stop writing.