For some time now, I've been experiencing writer's block. I mean, I have ideas and I still dump those thoughts into an "idea bin" (scrap of paper, napkin, phone notes, old fashioned pen to paper and or my Text Edit feature on my computer), but nothing has really grabbed hold. Just a bunch of frail bird bones - no flesh.
I can describe my writer's block as being in a square room with a grey mist pumped into it and no door out. Not a panic situation, oddly enough, but more of a sleep inducing fog. The grey probably has a lot to do with the current season and weather, which negatively affects a lot of people, so I'm not alone.
In fact, when Googling "writer's block" this afternoon, I read that it is a condition that can last for years and that many writers in the past suffered with it (and by suffering, do they mean "drank more"?) such as F. Scott Fitzgerald, Joseph Mitchell...even cartoonist Charles M. Schulz (good grief!). I also read that songstress Adele has suffered with it from time to time - so I'm in good company.
I seriously have not had anything to write about. I could dump the contents of my purse out and write about that, I suppose...but then I worry that it's not interesting enough, or I might not have the right sexy filter to photograph it properly or that my purse in fact, contains nothing more than old Kleenexes and tampons from my mythical youth.
I considered going through my closet and blogging about how I can organize it, what with all the sudden craze for pathological orderliness and that woman who wrote a book (how did THAT happen?) about the joy of throwing out your possessions, and all. But I took a closer look and decided that my hangers are all wrong and suddenly, everything I own makes me look dumpy. No one needs to see that. Plus, the article would really look more pleasing if I had a walk in closet as decorated by Lauren Conrad.
The more I worry about not writing and that the SEO traffic that I don't have to begin with will dwindle to the point that my metric graphs are straight lines, the more I want to scrub out my bathtub.
The more I look at the bathtub, the more I want to move to another part of the apartment and eat chips.
It's a bit of a hamster wheel. Everyday, I move from cozy blanket, to food dish, to the wheel of writer's block, to a lying down position, to chips, to the water bottle of guilt. Not unlike a hamster cage, actually.
I moved from the couch to the kitchen table to write this (and for the record, I am fully dressed - I haven't sunk that low yet). I have a spectacular view of Mt. Baker, with its white majestic glow reflecting the late afternoon winter sun filling a good chunk of the horizon. There are low clouds over the North Shore mountains and a fresh dusting of snow - truly inspiring. I can sort of see a glimpse of an interesting topic to write about but I can't seem to bridge the gap from mind to keyboard. You know that scene from Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom, where the suspension bridge breaks and they all hang from it against the cliff face? Well, this page is my cliff face.
Maybe it's "blank page syndrome". If so, I should be really cheeky and just post that along with the title "Snowstorm".
And so I drift around the apartment hoping that on the next lap around the living room, I'll be struck with something witty to write about.
Or, maybe I'll just read Tina Fey's "Bossy Pants" again...for the fourth time.