lost things
Oct. 27th, 2008 10:52 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
summer_sparrowWow, two posts in under a week. Maybe it's to do with being sick.
I know a lot of people on my flist write.
I haven't written a word of prose in a year (more? I'm not sure), and the only poetry is a sad little scribble about rabbits. Everyone is encouraging me to write, but I can't seem to.
It's not like writer's block. I've dealt with that, I know what it's like. It's simply as if... as if words are no longer in me. I can't write because there is nothing there. No stories or words... not even the flashes of pictures that come like a badly edited movie, the origin of most of my ideas.
I thought perhaps that since writing is sort of cathartic for me, that maybe upturns in my life were the cause. Then I realized I still have problems-- I'm still not happy most of the time-- they're just different problems.
Maybe it's having something else to focus on? Most of my time, my energy, my thoughts, are given to the boy. Not a bad thing-- he makes me happy, usually.
I don't even know what I expect from this post-- it's just sheer frustration. I don't let on usually but this hurts so much I could cry. Words are what I do. They're what I am. I could always, always use words, the only thing I ever handled with complete assurance. Even when I was wrong-- with words, I believed myself right. If you listen to my mother's stories about my childhood-- there's nothing interesting before I could talk. Her favorite was when I was about four-- they told me a ditch I was near was dangerous, and I spent the day repeating "dangerous ditch" in all sorts of ways. I have always loved words and sounds and...
Like I said, I don't know what I expect this to do for me. I don't feel any better than when I started. I just needed to say it, and if I said it to anyone irl, they'd say "well, then write."
They don't understand how much it breaks my heart that I can't.
I know a lot of people on my flist write.
I haven't written a word of prose in a year (more? I'm not sure), and the only poetry is a sad little scribble about rabbits. Everyone is encouraging me to write, but I can't seem to.
It's not like writer's block. I've dealt with that, I know what it's like. It's simply as if... as if words are no longer in me. I can't write because there is nothing there. No stories or words... not even the flashes of pictures that come like a badly edited movie, the origin of most of my ideas.
I thought perhaps that since writing is sort of cathartic for me, that maybe upturns in my life were the cause. Then I realized I still have problems-- I'm still not happy most of the time-- they're just different problems.
Maybe it's having something else to focus on? Most of my time, my energy, my thoughts, are given to the boy. Not a bad thing-- he makes me happy, usually.
I don't even know what I expect from this post-- it's just sheer frustration. I don't let on usually but this hurts so much I could cry. Words are what I do. They're what I am. I could always, always use words, the only thing I ever handled with complete assurance. Even when I was wrong-- with words, I believed myself right. If you listen to my mother's stories about my childhood-- there's nothing interesting before I could talk. Her favorite was when I was about four-- they told me a ditch I was near was dangerous, and I spent the day repeating "dangerous ditch" in all sorts of ways. I have always loved words and sounds and...
Like I said, I don't know what I expect this to do for me. I don't feel any better than when I started. I just needed to say it, and if I said it to anyone irl, they'd say "well, then write."
They don't understand how much it breaks my heart that I can't.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2008-10-27 06:44 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-10-27 08:29 pm (UTC)Something that helped me was changing the direction the words were coming from. I was so used to drawing the words out of longing that for a while I couldn’t draw them out of happiness. I had to actively work on tapping into that source, and changing how I viewed people’s motives/thoughts (in real life and in story context). Once I did that I could relate again, and draw inspiration from that common frame of reference.
Another thing that helped me was beta reading. I would be editing someone’s paper/fic, and find myself going “this is how I would have done/said it”. And things progressed from there. Also, I started listening to a broader range of music/reading a broader range of books, which helped because a lot of my inspiration came from clicking with something, and since my personal reference was changing the same things didn’t click with me as they had before. When I started branching out, I found things that did.
Also, I find that “just writing” does help. When I’m not feeling something, I just throw generic stuff out there, and it helps kick-start my brain and give me a foundation for ideas to come from.
**gives you big hug, because she isn’t sure if any of this will help you**
Glad to know the boy makes you happy though.