112. Writers block. (13 Jan 2016)

I realised today, it had been quite some time since I visited here, never mind posted something new to hopefully be of interest. And this is new. All conceived, composed and finished yesterday (13/01).

I found myself musing on what would happen if such as affliction was mine. How could you get around it without pressurizing yourself? What could you possibly begin with if you felt nothing at all? This is merely my best approximation of how I imagine it might feel and of how one might come out of it, possibly unknowingly.

Fingers crossed I never have to turn to this for advice.

112. Writers block. (13 Jan 2016)

The blank page taunts him, with its clear pure façade.

Lying on the desk, comfy in its bound and glued bunkbed, for 1.

Staring.

Daring him to make his pen dance between the lines.

Dance?

He can’t even make it stagger drunkenly from one side to the other.

In a drunks impression of graceful movement or lithe expression.

Ascenders and descenders, serifs and stems.

“I’s” that aren’t dotted crosses on “T’s”, were all conspicuous by their status as absentees.

Now, he was all behind like the “Q’s” tail.

And the longer this went on, the more he thought in language,

You could only write in “X’s”, which all the more made him just plain cross.

But the dawning penny dropping, found the blank page was full now.

Little did he realize when beginning such a rant.

That just by placing it down on the page, he’d have gotten inspiration from the frustration.

So now he had a start, a beginning, and was at last running with his feet on the ground.

 

© Jim Laing 2016.

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About Jim Laing

The Buddha said there were four kinds of people. Those who run from dark to dark, those who run from light to dark, those who run from dark to light and those who run from light to light. From a life going from dark to dark to having a few years running from dark to light, with scuffed hands and knees from sometimes falling, I may be getting the hang of it now. How it began is not now how it is, I need a quiet space, After the noise of the day, So I take sanctuary in the creativity, And my soul feeds, On sometimes dark, Sometimes light fantasy, And I dare like many to work, But stay up off my knees, To dream, perchance to suffer, But always still to dream. Here are things mostly lyrical and poetic, with nonsense sometimes, reviews and personal musings. The coffees hot and always black. The words not necessarily so.
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