Writer's Block

What? you say. Writer's block? you say. But how can it be? If you do not write something sensational for us to read, why, we shall feel lost and alone and desperate. Now, now, don't be dramatic. I have plenty to write about. Oh, scrumptious, you say, sighing in relief. Thank goodness for that. You had us worried for a moment there because your title says Writer's Block. It certainly does, but it does not mean that I have it currently. Just sometimes. Like any other writer, I get writer's block from time to time; I either have nothing I can think to write on, or I can't think of how I want to phrase the ideas I have. But why is the title of this post Writer's Block? you ask. Wouldn't that indicate that you have it, perhaps, justifying our anxiety? It might signify that indeed and I'm certain you are perfectly justified in jumping to conclusions, but in this case it does not mean that I have writer's block. I merely use that as a point of reference because I know that this condition afflicts many people who try to write, and I wanted to discuss some potential methods for combatting said affliction. Well then, you say, please proceed. I shall, thank you.

The first step to overcoming writer's block is recognition of the problem. That is not difficult as the digital screen or paper pad in front of you will remain either blank or covered in doodles or crazy caricatures of people you have the misfortune of knowing. It is fairly obvious when nothing is coming out, so when you see that you have been sitting at your desk for an hour and nothing manifests itself on the page but a pencil sketch of your donkey-eared math teacher wearing suspenders, a Santa Claus hat, and a Bart Simpson tie, you may be certain that the problem is writer's block. (Note: you also ought to find a different person to teach you algebraic formulae).

So what's next? Well, now that you've noticed that you are about as productive in your writing as a prehistoric cockroach in a ball of dried amber, I think you ought to figure out a particular methodology for putting your mental cogs into motion when they seem to be rusted beyond repair. Now, different things work for different people. I, myself, I begin writing like a madman. But how is that possible? you ask. How can you resolve the inability to write by writing? My friends, just do it (Note: that's the Nike slogan by the way, and if it works for them it should work for you; unfortunately, it did not work for Tiger Woods who just did it and did it and did it. And did it and did it and did it. And did it and did it and did it and did it. Now he's all alone, and he can't find his swing).

Now, the process is actually fairly simple. It starts with writing letters, (you know, A and B and C, and so on). Then you upgrade to words like moose and goose and caboose and loose. When the wheels of progress begin to creak, try forming coherent sentences. Or incoherent sentences. And they don't need to have anything to do with what you are supposed to write about. For example, let's say I am stuck on a paper. The teacher wants me to write about Huckleberry Finn. I don't know what to say about Huck, so I begin saying things that make no sense at all and may or may not have anything to do with the subject at hand. But how do you do it? you ask. That's easy, friends; it's called writing poetry. Here's an example of what I mean.

I begin to ask the rodents how they brush their tails

And why eating cheese will clog their arteries

No wonder they don't live as long as us

But I don't care about the mice

They don't care about me

They simply live in the walls,

Which require invisible rafts

To float through on sailing winds of satiated clouds

From which purple monkeys throw poo and coconuts at passers-by

Hoping for a macadamia handout

If they'll only stop the sprinting pineapples from coming in first

And breaking the tape ahead of everyone else.

Yes, I did write that just now. It came out of my head as fast as I could write it down. Of course, that has nothing at all to do with Huckleberry Finn. In fact, it has nothing to do with anything. Should you ask me what it is signifying, I'm afraid I cannot tell you. That beautiful stanza I have just laid out has nothing in the way of meaning, that is until someone finds it; the important thing is that it is not purposeless. It has a function, namely the greasing of the track for the little engine who can, in fact, write about Huck Finn at this point. Let your fingers walk until your mind begins to talk. But I don't write poetry, you lament. I can't do that. That is not the point. I'm not asking you to write poetry. I'm asling you to write gibberish and nonsense (which often translates into poetry). Just write about stuff that comes to mind. Nonsensical words and images are the basis for the modern tradition of poetry anyway; just ask Allen Ginsberg and E.E. Cummings and John Lennon (Note: you cannot really ask these men anything; they're all dead).

Another method is taking a break. It may be that your eyes are tired from looking at the same blank screen or page for too long. You need to rest from it. Take a nap. Watch a movie. Go for a jog. Listen to music. Do anything you want that is unrelated to writing. After you've had some time apart from the paper, it will be on better terms with you, and you with it, as well.

Now, you ask, do you suppose that you, Jeff, will ever have a day in which you will have writer's block and be unable to write a post for your blog? Without your writing, my life would have no meaning for a day; I would simply curl up in a blanket and weep until you thought of something. Well, I am sorry to say it could be possible. In fact, it's entirely possible. However, it's more than likely I will end up writing an 800-word poem about purple monkeys throwing poo and coconuts at passers-by. For your sake however, I hope I always have something meaningful to say. Hopefully, I will always have something for you to read, laugh, or think about. On purple monkey days, you will probably leave comments on here to the effect of, "Do you friend, even now, know what it is all about?" (from Wole Soyinka's "Civilian and Soldier) to which I will have to answer, "Not a clue. But someday, someone will figure out what I was trying to say. And that person is probably smoking doobies."