THE WRITING ASYLUM

The Muse has ghosted me… and the cursor won’t let me forget…

I keep staring at my screen, lost in thought. Or maybe, the problem is there are no thoughts to be lost in. I’ve nothing to share. But damn, I want to write so badly. My brain creates the sound of a clock ticking. Probably a ticking time bomb. It is my brain after all.

I’ve looked at writing prompts. Normally prompts are like petrol to a creative flame. But zip. I got nudda.

It wouldn’t be a problem except, how many times has the blinking cursor mocked me this year? Bastard! And how many more times am I going to write about the curse known as writer’s block?

It’s getting ridiculous. But I know there are writers out there reading this and nodding their heads. It happens to the best of us.

I’ve tried breadcrumbing The Muse with writing prompts and bribing her with new toys. But she’d rather lounge around on Muse Island watching the sunset.

And that’s the problem. Our muses need wooing. Dating. And dare I say it? Foreplay. I’ve been a bad boyfriend this year.

Not my fault. Shit happened. A lot of it. If shit bricks could be turned into houses — does that even make sense? Now my metaphors are turning into shit. This is why I don’t write poetry. I digress.

My point is, on deep reflection, it hit me that this year my life turned into a soapy — one crisis after another. How melodramatic. As I explained to a friend, the stress hasn’t been full throttle 100% of the time.

It’s been like waves in the ocean. Some are little and some are big, they bob up and down. When one wave passes, there is another. I’ve been at some level of stress all year. Did I mention I’m not a poet?

I’m not sharing this for a pity party, you can read my other stories for that. I’m sure there are people who have had more shit hurled at them than I have this year. I’m alive, and death isn’t threatening me or a loved one at the moment. Life is okay.

But to a muse, stress is stress. And they hate stress, large and small. It’s their kryptonite. Stress consumes our thoughts and makes us tired. Exhaustion kills motivation.

Over the years, I have instructed many writing groups. I’m a nerd when it comes to writing theory. I know most of the tricks of the trade and different techniques to get writers to start writing and overcome writer’s block.

• Writing prompts (words, sentences, pictures, etc)
• Creating playlists and vision boards)
• Consuming stories (movies, TV shows, books, etc)
• Date the muse, aka, Write regularly (the creative mind is like a muscle; the more you use your creative mind, the stronger it becomes).

What I find isn’t talked about what stress does to the creative mind. Of course, we’re all different. But for many of us, if we are stressed for a prolonged period of time finding words can be challenging.

No prompt or technique will act as a magic pen. The issue is beyond motivation and deep seeded in the brain. Stress is the beast. You need the slay the beast.

Unfortunately, it’s not always possible. Life throws us shit storms out of our control. Show yourself kindness; acknowledge that writing will be hard and the blinking cursor will mock you.

In saying that, I urge writers to keep trying to break on through. Diamonds come out of the rough. You never know when the writer’s block curse will break, unless you try to write something. Stress levels come and go in waves.

Other than diamonds, shit can also be found in the rough and land on the page. Shit happens. Give yourself a break.

As for me, life has mellowed. Lost the drama queen crown. I can exhale. Unwinding and the body understanding there is no stress takes time. It feels weird.

The Muse has been working on a novel. Or rather, she is getting reacquainted in the world. It’s a start. Writing on demand at the moment is out of the question. The cursor still mocks and the words land on the screen slowly.

Once Upon a Time,

There was a writer. The story witch cursed her by kidnapping The Muse and left the writer with a blinking cursor. Every flash laughed at the writer’s expense. Day in day out. Until one writing session.

Fed up with the wicked blinking curser, the writer began to write into the dark void left by her kidnapped muse and took back her power by writing this shitty story.

The End.

Well, I think this shit sparkles… like a polished turd. What are your thoughts?

And writers, if you’re going through a stressful period, be kind to yourself.