Tuesday, 15 January 2019

Writer's Block




writer's block
noun [ U ] UK   /ˌraɪ.təz ˈblɒk/  US  /ˌraɪ.t̬ɚz ˈblɑːk/


the condition of being unable to create a piece of written work because something in your mind prevents you from doing it.

(https://dictionary.cambridge.org/dictionary/english/writer-s-block)

I guess I'm having what real writers call a 'writer's block' - the inability to proceed with a piece of written work, or works, due to my mind's unwillingness to cooperate with my need to produce a masterpiece chockful of clever play of words meant to suggest, to imply, to be so discreet you have to read carefully between the lines and then go back and reread the same sentence to try to make sense of the subtlety of the words and then you go 'aaaah, I got it!', when I deign to just be bold as I almost always am in my writeups and just say to hell with subtlety and finesse, let me just stop beating around the bush and just come out roaring and say what I want to say out loud and in your face, to shock you with honesty and truths, not half-truths, bcos half-truths are lies, and take it from a person who's been lied to in so many ways, I absolutely hate lies above everything else, so let me just write about my own truths, truths about stuff with emotions so raw you could almost smell the blood dripping from these words, about fears that are scarier than those monsters hiding under your bed and things that go 'bump!' in the night, about happiness that turns up at the door unexpectedly and makes itself at home in my heart, about anger that rises with every injustice I see and I just about manage to count one two three four before it turns into a storm that rages within and I have to retreat inside myself and ride the storm till it calms down, about Love stories that are much sadder than the tears of mermaids longing for their humans who don't realise that Love transcends colours and creeds, shapes and forms, humans who turn away cos they can't recognise Love staring them right in the eye, and so do not ask me to mince my word cos my words are mine to shape, to mould, to articulate with an esoteric diction and a fast conviction that roll off my tongue onto the page, and I hold them as gingerly as holding a fragile butterfly whose wings might tear at the slightest touch, and at times my words are as loaded as a gun pointed to the head, holding hostage vivid images and sounds and scents and moments, neither asking for ransoms nor leaving suicide notes, and if I am to be a writer with original thoughts, my words need to be my own, my words need to come out of a place so deep inside, a place of truth that hasn't seen the sunlight in a hundred years, a place so fathomless you'd have to close your eyes and jump in with both feet, just plunge in with something akin to blind faith that as you're falling down the rabbit hole, you'll pray that when you finally land, something much softer than piles of feather pillows will break your fall cos anything less will break much more than your bones, and the shock, the pain, the confusion of it all will make you feel such an outrage when you finally realise that I am here ranting ranting ranting it all in just one very very long sentence in the hope that after endless false starts and annoying stops, this one will finally break these chains of my accursed writer's block. Aameen! 😉✌🏼

3 comments:

  1. Woman, that is one looooong sentence .

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Woman, that it is. 😆😆😆🙏🏼🌹

      Delete
    2. Woman, it’s been months since you were called. I’ve missed you. 😢 May you be among the salihins. Aameen.

      Delete