Writers block is completely disheartening. As a writer, it is natural for words to pour out of my fingertips, forming paragraphs of which I can be proud. Writing is comforting and refreshing. It is my passion. When it doesn’t come to me, it’s as if a piece of my heart has been ripped out of my chest, torn from its place, and hidden far away. For those who don’t write, trust me writers block is a wretched feeling.
Writing is a piece of me, something that helps me breathe. I can process my thoughts on paper or type them on my MacBook. Writing helps my restless nature, letting me live my wild dreams without moving from my couch. So when I sit down, open my laptop, and stare at a blank screen, I expect my fingers to move in the familiar motions. Yet my hands hover over the keys. Frozen in place, having no intention of moving, they are much like me when my alarm wakes me up each morning.
I stare at a blank laptop screen and start the beginning stages of going mad. All at once, unexpectedly it’s all gone. No thoughts of wonderful stories, not even blunt or emotional opinions come to my mind. My way of loosening up, letting my hair down, giving anything a chance, is missing out of the blue.
When I write I feel daring, unrestrained, as if I can be whatever I want to be with no restrictions. I feel like I can be irresponsible and get away with it. Having a right to speak my own opinion and having a voice is so incredible because I don’t have to actually voice the words, I can type them instead. Talking in front of people is not a strength of mine. So, having all those feelings swirling inside me and that lovely way to “speak” suddenly ripped away is devastating. It is shredded from my very being, taken— gone.
Because of my powerless fingers, I beg my mind to work. I plead. Still, nothing.
I decided to ask for help from my writing teacher and she told me to write about writer’s block. Sitting down on my couch, I turn off my phone and begin to type not caring what came. Snap! It came back. My mind and fingers began to turn again, like an old clock’s gears that no one had been able to fix but suddenly you hear that chime when the clock strikes 12. Tick, Tock, I’m back.