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Writer’s Block is Real
As much as I wish it wasn’t. And my idea for a cure.
I’ve seen those blog posts from a million different writers, including those that I love and respect.
Writer’s block isn’t real. Real writers keep going.
I get what they’re saying; I truly do. There are some people who, given the excuse, will spend the next three decades calling themselves writers despite not writing anything, because the muse isn’t striking their spirit; because every time they try to sit down, they write and crumple at the first sign of hardship.
They’re “writers”. They just haven’t written anything. Ever.
Except that one blog post last year. And maybe a poem back in 9th grade.
Writers have to write. And I’m not looking for validation on that front. I’ve done my writing today. I’m doing my writing now.
That doesn’t mean it doesn’t feel like I’m pulling teeth to get the words out. That it feels like I’m pushing a wagon-load of cabbages up the south face of K2.
(A note: just looking up which face of K2 was the worst to climb derailed me for a full 20 minutes. That’s writer’s block.)
I’m writing. I’m suffering from writer’s block. Those two things aren’t mutually exclusive.
