I found myself staring at a blank page for what seemed like an hour or so, trying to find words that I no longer can remember.
Have you been in this situation a lot?
I have… and it’s worse than writer’s block.
I’m prone to rambling and I’ll take this opportunity to apologize because I need to write it down or forever hold my peace. So bear with me if you can as I strive to make sense out of the craziness of it all.
You see, it’s been a cloudy weather inside my fishbowl head for quite some time now. It taunts me and tells me, “Hey! There are a lot to write about. But let’s make it a bit more interesting by making it a bit cloudy so the obvious is not that obvious.”
Teeth-gnashing and hand-clenching frustration ensued. There’s no other word to describe the feeling of excitement to finally being able to write something suddenly fades away into oblivion when I’m about to finally type in those words that’s been dubstepping inside my head even during sleep.
It’s been more than a year that I haven’t exercised my fingers. The all too familiar tapping of the keyboard that I missed the most was but an echo of the zeal from which I luxuriate on. Now, it’s just blank.
Nothing… not even thoughts that are contrary to what I am could save me from this writer’s rut. Not even the praises and inquiries I’m getting from fans of The Scroll Saints, who’s waiting with bated breath for the next chapters to come along, have not listed my catatonic fingers from tapping away.
I did this to myself.
I think I have exhausted part of my creativity by devoting myself to just one angle of what I’ve been exposed to doing since I was a kid. I’ve forgotten the joy it brings me to write in prose or even poetry. I’ve forgotten that without an outlet for the words jumbled in my brain, my creative outlet will begin to deteriorate.
I didn’t head the warning bells. I didn’t care. And now, I’m this partial shell of a woman that can’t even write a complete chapter without groaning and slumping with defeat. The words escapes me and I can’t put a stopper on it. It just drains away without me committing to memory.
I have failed my characters. I have failed me.
Maybe it comes with the stress of everyday living… working… pretending to be a happy person 24/7 for the sake of impressions. It took it’s toll and I have no one to blame but myself.
One voice of reason said to just step back and breathe, and soon it will all come back to me.
But darn! The wait is killing me!
I needed to capture the colors again. I needed to capture the words that I lost once again. I needed to capture myself once again.
And so for this year, I have sworn an oath to myself to all the dead poets and the mighty writers that have gone by that I will strive to hold on to the spark of inspiration that I have recently found. It’s not the all ablaze muse I’m used to having, but for now, it will suffice.
It had to suffice or the spark will be gone again and I’ll find myself with the same cloudy weather inside my head that I’ve been stuck with for the longest time. It’s driving me crazy; not having an outlet to pour over my meanderings contributes to my already bland life.
I need the colors again and when I see a faint shade of neither black nor white, I’ll grasp it tightly and nurture it until I can turn it to a full spectrum of colors.
And we’ll start with Cyan… [Yes. The Chronicler will be back soon.]