A Blocked Writer
My ideas all spent; my mind empty; my pen useless in my cramped hand; the word count mocking me, pitiless. My head is vacant, but not empty. On some level I realize my poor cranial cavity is hot boxed with pot and that its the lingering, sweet smelling smoke that crowds out thoughts. In the midst of its mist, I can't hope to find words, and connections are plain impossible. I used to enjoy being lifted by the hot smoke in my head, lighter than air. I'd ride it high into the clouds and bask in every passing breeze. But I've become a slave to those passive winds and I've grown weary of wandering through clouds. I can't find ground beneath my feet.
With my head in the clouds so long, it's started to gather the detritus of dreams. Dreams my heart once passionately embraced like the two were junior high lovers, naively certain they'd stay together forever. All the useless skills I've half-learned to pursue my futile fancies remain as reminders of my failures. How to make a straight rip-cut across plywood, to wire a joystick to a mother board, read the notes off a bass staff or put some curve on a cross in soccer.
Tapping my pen against the paper, trying to will it to scribble down some meaningful shapes, I avoid the conclusion that my abilities to scan a line of poetry for its rhythm, to craft compelling rising action and to describe a character's internal state without outright stating it will soon be filed away with the rest of my pointless knowledge.
I can't reign in my vacant brain. It drags me higher still. I ascend into the regions above the clouds, icy and white, in no way unlike death.
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im glad i wasnt the only one that thought of writing when i read this story. i like how you express what we all have felt at some point.
ReplyDeleteYou did a great job recreating that fragmented thought processes and frustration that characterize writer's block.
ReplyDeleteBut I've become a slave to those passive winds and I've grown weary of wandering through clouds.
ReplyDeleteGreat stuff. I loved the use of clouds.
It's ironic that you are writing about not being able to write. What I took from this is that pot is causing the writer's block, is that right? The contrast of wanting to write but being a slave to the "winds" is very striking and original.
ReplyDeleteI too panic over word count. Well done with tuning into your senses and capturing the powerful images that swirled around.
ReplyDeleteMaybe if you wanna be a serious writer you should shit and get off the pot. I dug a lot of your images, the ones everyone else already mentioned above. Especially the one about being a slave to the winds. I know what that feels like, but seriously... prolonged pot use just leads to paranoia and anxiety problems.
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