Writer’s block sucks.
Okay, that’s probably not news for the writers out there, and there’re a lot worse things in the world, but it is—at the very least—a tremendous pain in the ass. And while I am a fan of whining (clearly, and not to be confused with “wining”, which I am also quite fond of), I’d really not like to have to whine about not being able to write. (Wow. Two glasses of wine and I can barely understand that last sentence. Apparently I became a lightweight when the block set in? *grumble*)
Wouldn’t it be MUCH more fun to whine about not getting enough sex? Or to bellyache about the cost of gas? Or that I have gas? (Ate soy today. Sorry, honey.)
Needless to say, I’ve got nothing to say. No. That isn’t exactly true. I have LOTS to say, but my words won’t come. I have whole movies playing repeatedly in my head, and they’re truncated by my own ineptitude in expressing clear thoughts without reading them back to myself and thinking, “AUGH!!!! Awful!” I can’t make the English fit the mind-film, so to speak.
Perhaps I should write in Spanish? Yes, it’s true that it’s helpful to be fluent in a language if you plan to create in it, and I’m not…exactly, but I was thinking maybe the extra challenge would take my mind off of how bad I suck at this art, and how the words sometimes don’t find their way to the page, and that’s frustrating. Sigh.
Okay, back to writing fiction. Maybe. Or maybe I’ll just go play on facebook for a while instead, drinking the rest of this glass of vino, and then go to bed.
All I know is writer’s block bites ass…
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