I'll be honest: I've been struggling with writer's block lately. Now, in my mind, "writer's block" doesn't signify an inability to physically write; rather, it's a lack of drive. A lack of inspiration, where there once was a spring of ideas flowing into my fingertips as I typed. A lack of perseverance, where there once was an energizer bunny within my mind that kept me writing nonstop until the early hours of morning.
But mostly--a lack of desire, where there once was a burning heat connecting my brain and heart to my writing.
I don't know what did it. I used to be able to write on the spot. Wherever. Whenever. Oh, you need me to write 500 words? Simple. I could think of any topic that came to mind, and my train of thought would do the rest. Yes, it would be 500 words that conveyed a stream-of-consciousness type atmosphere, but it was full of me. Full of my voice. Full of my character.
I don't know when I lost it. One day, I simply could not write about my own feelings anymore. It was like I had become numb, and I started writing to the numbness. My writing lacked my personal self; my writing became something that was merely enthusiasm and a general fakeness. Writing went from being an outlet of my emotions to being an obligation, a quota of 500 words I had to fill every week. Instead of writing about a topic that I was passionate and fiery about, I would think to myself: What listicle can I write this week? What assortment of 500 words can I piece together this week? Will anyone ever notice that I've been slacking in my writing?
I had a fear that I had lost my inner flame for writing forever. It took many hours of sitting blankly at my computer and many hours of sitting blankly with pen and paper in hand and many hours of sitting blankly in front of my journal to finally realize this: I had never lost it. It has always been there, patiently meditating in my soul, waiting for me to come seek it back out.
My love for words will never leave me. My love for emotions and happiness will never leave me. My love for writing will never leave me. Words. Oh, words! How can I express just how much I love words? Language is beautiful. I am a geek for it. We are, quite frankly, very fortunate to have developed the capacity for language. I think it is amazing that ancient primate ancestors of humans show brain activation when they use their gestures and sounds to communicate, and scans of human brain activity show the same parts of the brain light up when either spoken or signed language is used.
Take, for example, the English language. The English language is a melting pot of so many roots and cultures and meanings; beyond English, there are even more languages out there! Languages affect the way we think. That is, a person's native language will actually shape his or her cognition and instincts. Each language's grammar and lexicon never fail to amaze me. Aboriginal people in Cape York speak Kuuk Thaayorre, which relies on absolute directional words. This means that in their language, words like "left" and "right" do not exist; instead, they use compass directions. They would say that someone is sitting "east of them" rather than "to their left." Interestingly, this actually affected their patterns of thought. A study was conducted with English speakers, Hebrew speakers, and Kuuk Thaayorre speakers. They were given a set of cards that depicted a series of events; they were told to arrange them in chronological order. English speakers arranged them left to right because that is how English is read; Hebrew speakers arranged them right to left because that is how Hebrew is read. Kuuk Thaayorre speakers, on the other hand, arranged them depending on which compass direction they were facing. If they were facing north, the east-to-west organization of time would make them arrange the cards from right to left; if they were facing south, however, they would arrange the cards from left to right.
Aren't words and languages really neat?! As you can see, when my stream of consciousness takes over, I can't help but geek out. Writer's block may have clouded my writing for a few months, but, like the first crocus of spring rising from the winter dirt, I am finally beginning to break through the glass barrier.