Regurgitated Ideas and Probably a Vampire

Be a writer, they said.

It'll be fun, they said.

However, today puts the FU in fun. Why?

Writer's block is a bitch. There, I said it.

When the words are rightthere. When the story is righthere. When it's all freaking RIGHTTHERE. But nothing comes out.

Well, that's not true. Muttering to yourself comes out. Swearing comes out. Inane chores and attempted busywork comes out. Distraction on all levels comes pouring out like a broken levee.

But the words?

Yeah, not so much.

Maybe this candle will help?...

(Yes, shopping is one such form of distraction.)

I have a multitude of manuscripts in various stages of completeness. Some of which I utterly adore, and others need varying degrees of attention, editing, and maybe a flamethrower. Each one represents a slightly different genre or subgenre, and none, I repeat, none of them are currently striking any sort of inspiration in my brain.

The one I chose to focus on today is by far the least developed. Which is perfect, in that it offers me the most freedom and fewest constraints and editing requirements. However, this openness also means I have zero predetermined guidance; very little plot or established trajectory to which to cling desperately. The onus is on me to do the damn thing. 

But my inability to do the damn thing is exactly why I'm writing this post instead. They say to write through the fog. So I'm writing about writer's block. Because irony. 

Stupid elusive words.

Like every author, I have several ways in which I attempt to address writer's block, to varying degrees of success. I clean. I cook. I read. I fall down the Pinterest rabbit hole. I watch wordy TV shows like Gilmore Girls or The West Wing. I buy candles like the one shown above in the hopes its mere presence will elicit some sort of story inspiration. 

Sometimes it helps. Sometimes I've just wasted hours of my day, with zero written words, lofty redecorating goals, and a few new candles to show for it...

It is a common assumption that writing is easy. When you tell someone you're a writer, the most frequent response is something along the lines of "oh I'd love to be a writer, that must be so fun!"

Fun, Debra? Fun?

Sure, if crippling self-doubt, an inability to describe the most basic scene, failing to balance the proper level of interpersonal conflict in order to keep the plot going all without making your characters unlikeable or unrealistic, and forgetting the word "turquoise" sounds fun! Then yeah, it's fun.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go find something distracting to do, in the hopes that my words find me and my imaginary friends start playing nice. I see some fall/Halloween decorating in my immediate future. And tea. Lots and lots of tea. 

But seriously, someone please buy me that candle.