Dear Writer’s Block

I would like to start off this letter by stating that you are not an actual “block” to me. More like a road “check-point” in a politically unstable country.

Today you made me anxious, self-defeating, and worst of all, you made me doubt my writing; which has always been a security blanket of mine.

Well guess what? I passed. My pages, after being looked over with a suspicious eye, passed right on by! So you may have slowed my progress, but you have not imprisoned me!

I know you’re famous & all, and don’t really care if you take this the wrong way, but you might want to consider changing your name. Writer’s Check-Point has a nice ring. Because even though you cause anxiety, stress, doubt, self-consciousness, and lack of motivation; you also make a writer slow down and really concentrate on every word. Sometimes this is like a slow nightmare, but today I passed through that check point without a fire-hose interrogation, and found a renewed belief in what I’m doing.

Thankfully and Truly not yours,

LK

I Don’t Know

I am not certain.

That is not clear at this time.

My knowledge of that is a bit hazy, ask someone else.

That question is confusing, ask me again in a couple of years.

Hmmm, I don’t want to answer that.

Obviously the answer is hashmananaladeedah, don’t you agree?

Let me answer your question with a question…

“Swedish fish are much bigger than the standard gummy bear, who would win in a fight?”

WOW, what’s that over there?! (point, wait till the person turns their head, then run!)

All of these are my recommended answers

to questions about my life and future,

but unfortunately,

the words that end up coming out of my mouth,

are the most honest,

and insanely frustrating ones of all…

I

don’t

know.

 

Of Three Minds

My life is being pushed around by a personal Cerberus. My brain is split in three, and unlike Hades’ loyal guard dog, my three heads do not represent past, present, and future; and the only thing they are stopping from entering my brain is logic.

Every day I daydream about working as an intern at a studio, working my way up to becoming a screenplay writer. When asked what industry I want to get into, I say children’s publishing. And when I ask myself what I want to do with the rest of my life, my heart says being a full time novelist.

Barf.

No wonder I am all over the place. My subconscious, mouth, and heart can’t even agree on something! It is undeniable that writing in general is what I want to do, because I get that spark in my soul, and I start rambling like an excited crack head when talking about writing. I just wish that when I sit down, and try and shut up my three minds, when I delve into my brain, that I could find a practical skill that made me as happy as writing.

My friend is a financial analyst, you should hear her when she talks about statics and what not. I smile and nod, trying to seem like I get what she is talking about, because I know that is what she does when I talk about my writing projects. When I bring up this topic of practical skills, my dad always says that the world would not be a pleasant place without artists.

Barf, again.

It’s exhausting. Looking for a “real” job, filling out application after application. The whole time trying to listen to all three heads that are barking out orders at me. At least Hades could command Cerberus to shut up, I’m stuck in the middle of a wrestling match between three figurative heads that are as much a part of me as my nose, trying to figure out what way to go, which one to listen to, and if I need to take an insanity test.

One of these days my Cerberus will stop the nonsense from sneaking into my brain, and keep my true skills and inspirations from escaping…but until then I am one confused knot, tied up by my three minds, subconscious, mouth, and heart.

What Happens?

When you hold your breath

waiting for “life” to begin?

To dreams when you let them

fade with past years?

When you have to fight

to be present every day,

to escape the figment of

future that keeps

scratching against

your inner ear?

When the voices of all

those closest to you

get too loud,

like a fanatic crowd?

When fear, mistrust,

stress & anxiety

make you run away

from the life you profess

to be working so hard for.

When you just want

a moment of quietude,

but can’t stand silence.

When all you want to do is lay around,

but you can’t endure to be still any longer.

When you are desperately

trying to get over

childish hang ups,

selfish wants,

yourself.

When the thought of asking

for help is appalling,

demeaning,

and necessary.

What happens when you get tired

of being asked,

and of asking the

what?

where?

why?

who?

how?

and

when?

of your life.

When you just want

answers

but can’t stand to ask

questions.

What happens?