My work as a writer convinced me that writer’s block should be a thing in the past. I simply cannot afford that given that I’m paid to write, which is a good thing: I love writing, and I love it even when I get assigned fluff news pieces.
Creative writing, on the other hand, is another thing altogether: you simply cannot force creative juices to flow when they’re not there.
This year, I have exactly four notebooks for my creative writing. The first notebook, to finally organize the story I’ve been working on for three years so that I can finally stitch it together. I know, it’s kind of weird that I’m using a notebook for it, but I prefer writing with ink. I also have magnificently neat handwriting, so that’s a thing.
The second notebook is for this thing that I wish could change someone’s life, but maybe that’s too long a shot. I am exactly three pages in, and I still have no idea what I want to do with it despite the fact that I’ve done a lot of research on the topic that I have been writing about.
The third one is for a murder thingie that I started because I had a lot of anger for awhile, but that feeling eventually burned out and now I’m stuck. I am waiting for the next time I get really angry to finally have progress on that.
The fourth, for beat poetry that I really suck at but am determined to do because I have to branch out. I mean, sure, I am a very flexible writer (so much so I have branched out to writing about the Gaming Industry instead of sticking to Politics and Entertainment and Health) but poetry is a vastly different thing, and I want to try getting better at it.
I have all these notebooks and a ton of pens (in various colors), and even a slinky to help me, but I am just not creatively inspired enough.
Because I am happy-ish.
Well, as happy as happy me could be. The last time I was able to write while happy was about three or four years ago (and that was when I was feeding off on someone else’s negative emotions). Then I got depressed, which is a really great thing for my writing, but not great for my health. Now that I feel somewhat a lot better… I am stuck.
Which is very similar to what Karen Gillan had to go through in “Not Another Happy Ending” except that she actually published a book, while I publicized my navel-gazing on national newspaper.
And I haven’t published anything that’s not work-related ever since. Unless you count self-publishing on this blog, where I’m usually ranting. Like now.
It’s the sad part of being the moody creative, and I can’t push it.
I need inspiration.
I’ve been perspiring 90 percent of the time, I need that 10 percent. And no, Thomas Edison, I don’t care that you say Genius is 99 percent perspiration, you are more of a scientist than a creative, and if I shall follow the words of a genius, I shall follow the words of Ernest Hemmingway, which means that I need mojitos right now, but which I don’t have the ingredients to make, so I’ll settle for wine. I can drown myself in mojitos next time.