Tag: writer’s block

  • Smashing Writer’s Block

    Smashing Writer’s Block

    I always advised others to get over writer’s block by writing about it. This morning seems to demand that I take some of my own advice. Fair warning then that this post may appear incoherent and nonsensical, but only to you. To me, it will probably be a perfect reflection of the madness that stirs within. We all have such madness, but I think the surrounding of friends or family, or just familiar recognition of who we appear to be subdues the madness because when we feel recognised, we have less reason to demand recognition of what stirs beneath the surface. Most of us hide it, some over-emphasise it, and some of us, the odd few, try to leverage it to feed our passion without appearing totally insane.

    I’m not quite sure which category I fit into this morning. Writing this novel that is inspired by true events from my life makes for some interesting introspection. Regrets threaten to surface as I find myself looking with fresh eyes at incidents from many years ago that I always assumed to have played out differently. Catharsis has nothing to do with it, nor does an indulgence of the ego. It’s the stark realisations or a gentleness of judgement that is possible now but felt unreasonable or unjustified then. Trying to understand the most disruptive influences in my life often leads to realising that they were also the most constructive. Not because they meant to be, but because of what about me was forced to grow because of who they were .

    We leave things behind because we find them unpleasant, not because we find them endearing or cherish-able. The same is true for relationships. Perhaps this is why it is more difficult to recall the good times when you focused on the bad times for so long. Idealism can taint judgement and spawn good intentions that are disastrous at times. Good intentions don’t always result in wholesome outcomes. Sometimes it causes more destruction than any bad intention ever could.

    Speaking of idealism, I am reminded about my own quote recently that claimed that there are no bad intentions, only poorly informed decisions. This is more true and real for me this morning than it was when I wrote that a few weeks ago. Even when we go about deliberately wanting to cause harm or pain, the motivation to do so is grounded in a need to avenge a wrong, or to teach a lesson, both of which are inherently good intentions. Understanding and compassion will probably improve the method we use when setting out to teach someone a lesson, but understanding and compassion are seldom traits that we court during moments of despair or disappointment. Reclaiming our significance is all that seems to matter, which is why regrets only follow after destroying the significance that we fought so hard to claim.

    Being an anomaly of society has its romantic connotations but only until the moment that human connection is needed, or desired. It’s impossible to connect with normal when you’re an anomaly. Normal appears boring and shallow, or distracted at best, and being anomalous feels dysfunctional in a society that is normalised by tradition, culture, or social standing. Each time I thought I found a place for myself in this world, I discovered that I was simply a placeholder for someone else instead. I hate tokens and trinkets because they rarely have any inherent value other than the sentiment that we endow on them. Being anomalous feels like that on most days.

    Self-pity is pitiful, and it also assumes that there is something worthy of pity. Therefore, true self-pity can’t exist, and any appearance of self-pity must therefore be a desperation for attention or affection, or both, rather than any sense of remorse or regret. No one truly believes that they are pitiful, or useless. Any professions of the same is nothing more than a desire to find someone to disagree with them.

    Writer’s block is for writers. But we’re all writers of our own story, with some of us having the requisite level of narcissism to believe that our story is worth sharing. Narcissism itself is not a bad thing. We all have it in us. It starts out with believing that we’re worthy, and gets out of hand when we believe that we’re more worthy than others. Believing in your worth is a healthy form of narcissism, because anything less would be self-deprecation which is a sign of ingratitude. Therefore, it suggests that a narcissist is potentially more grateful than one who appears humble. Now there’s something to ponder on cold nights and warm hearths.

    My reasons for writing and sharing what I write sways between wanting to contribute towards improving the world we live in, and wanting to point out the obvious to the oblivious so that I can see the a-ha moments on their faces as I feel significant in knowing that I caused it. The truth is probably somewhere between those two ideals. I’d rather continue rambling than facing that novel again right now. It feels like much ado about nothing, personified.

    Similar to the first book that I wrote. Great feedback from those that found the tenacity to read it to the end, but dismissive remarks of its complexity from those that lack the conviction to look closer, at themselves more than at me. Perhaps the greatest lesson that I’ve learnt from my journey towards becoming a writer in my own right is that unless you come from a family with a strong tradition in a similar field, you will be the odd one out that no one else gets. Chances are therefore also good that writers are most often middle-children or an only child because those with familiar or kindred spirits have less reason to articulate their soul’s desires or aspirations in their search for peace.

    The madness must abate. Alas, I have deadlines and bills to pay. The cynic in me must rest so that the demands of a practically boring and slavish existence can prevail in order to maintain the semblance of sanity that society pretends to hold.

  • Writer’s Block

    I recently advised someone that when faced with writer’s block, the best remedy is to write about it. Seems counter-intuitive, but it seems to work for me. My problem though is that I don’t recognise myself as a writer. I vent through words, often carefully selected to maintain the level of neutrality needed in my sentiments so as not to offend many close associates that I was bold enough to invite into this blog space. That, and the fact that I would not want this space to be turned into a sensationalist’s whoring for attention. I think it works beneficially for me because it forces me to focus on the issues at hand, rather than taking an easy swipe at soft targets.

    Soft targets, on the other hand, make for an easy solution to writer’s block, if I were a writer, that is. The problem I have with subscribing to that label is that it assumes that I have writing worth sharing, or more importantly, that I do justice to the part. I ramble. A lot. That rambling is often my attempt to make sense of the internal conversations I’m having, while my focus is to articulate it in a way that will make sense to someone witnessing my cycle of insanity, if they were privy to it. So I write the way I think, often without filters, with the exception of the scenario described in the opening paragraph. Whether this is good or bad remains to be seen. But again, it only remains to be seen if it was written for the audience and not primarily for my own sanity.

    Thoughts that have threatened to prompt me to write in recent weeks appear to consistently centre around the acquisition of knowledge. I’m caught between the need versus the want of knowing something. I know that one is driven by the ego and the other by sincere curiosity, but the words are so easily interchangeable that it’s difficult to make a definitive observation about it. What I am convinced of though, is the fact that there are times when we demand to know something simply because we feel entitled to the information, or because we wish to use it for ulterior motives. The lesser frequent motivation for acquiring knowledge is because we are genuinely curious and seek to understand, rather than judge. While both have their place, I think there is a significant imbalance leaning towards the former. Given the state we find the world in today, it’s not surprising that most knowledge is acquired for egotistical purposes before anything else.

    Perhaps in that is some hint at what would cause the writer’s among us to block. Perhaps writer’s block is what happens to all of us in different ways, whether we’re writers or not. I think that when we lose sight of purpose, we struggle to find reason. In the absence of reason or purpose, we’re most likely to act in response to an expectation rather than to act towards fulfilling a greater purpose. If we’re fortunate, we realise it soon enough and refocus our efforts which clears the mental block that stifled our progress. If we don’t realise it soon enough, chances are that our ego will succeed in clouding our judgement further, and in our efforts to allay our fears of insignificance or incompetence, we play to the audience and slowly erode any sense of purpose we had in what we set out to do simply because we cannot afford to be seen as lacking.

    The fact that we may be travelling the same path that we set out on does not necessarily mean that we still take joy or benefit from travelling it. I think there’s an important point in there somewhere. I also just realised that writing about my mental block spawned thoughts that were hardly at the forefront of my mind when I started. I guess the trick is to be able to express without judging yourself first, or without considering if what is to be expressed will be seen as wisdom, or whimsical. I generally don’t care much for the opinions of others, although recently I have been distracted by it from time to time. When that distraction reared its head, I found myself floundering in my ability to be decisive which is a very frustrating place to be.

    Re-centering my thought process on what I subscribe to has made the difference between bobbing around aimlessly in the sea of dysfunction around me and setting the current to disrupt that same sea. Disruption is often frowned upon, but usually only by those that lack purpose. Disruption in thought and deed is needed to avoid slipping into a rut of routine while believing we’re part of something great. That something great is usually the energy of the masses that are in that rut with us, while the volume of our collective trudging quickly turns that rut into a trench. The distracted masses then look around and celebrate their time in the trenches as a select few rise to the top and exit the trenches because they became the champions of the dysfunction purely through tenure rather than contribution. It’s the age-old celebration of a struggle. The duration of our struggles is often what defines us, more than our emergence from the same state. It’s the shortest path to pacification of the meek.

    The cynic in me is thriving, which is usually a sign that I need to abate and reflect. Introspection is a good place to be. It’s a pity that it is so often disrupted by a need to act on its fruit, where the absence of such action will leave us being as impotent as the foam on the ocean. Writer’s block be gone.