Dear writer’s block,
Some people are lucky enough to be born alongside their best friend. Others grow up with the love of their life. Me? I’ve had the (mis)fortune of having you by my side my whole life—a faithful companion, a despised enemy.
(Even as Itype this letter, you sit here next to me, stealing the words out from beneath my fingertips like the mean little troll you are.)
Every writer must deal with you, unfortunately. You’re incredibly prolific in that way, like a free gift we never asked for and can’t give back. “Here, you can be a passionate writer—a hobbyist or a novelist or a journalist, perhaps—and as a bonus, we’ll even throw in a life-long subscription to writer’s block at no extra charge. You’re welcome!”
To say you’re the bane of my existence might be a little drastic. There are things I hate more, like bad wifi connections and my university’s public transit systems, but you’re definitely up there. You are the reason I’ve stressed over so many essays and assignments, staying up until the wee hours of the morning, waiting for the high of sleep deprivation to beat you down and carry me across the finish line. You’re the reason so many of my friends have given me that wide-eyed look of disbelief when I cry about how I have nothing to say in an essay, how I can’t seem to finish an article, how I don’t even know where to start.
“But you’re a writer!” they say. “It’s what you do.”
And sure, I am. Sometimes the words flow freely and I have inspiration for days and doing what I love is no trouble whatsoever. That’s a best-case scenario. More often than not, the writing process is fraught with hemming and hawing, with procrastination, and with looking for inspiration everywhere but finding it nowhere. That’s all thanks to you, writer’s block.
Because of you, I spend extra-long in the shower when I have a new project to work on, hoping some kind of shampoo-induced epiphany will hit me and unblock my brain the way the warm steam unblocks my pores. Because of you, I find myself extra productive in other areas of my life when I have a deadline looming. “It’s not writer’s block,” I’ll try to tell myself. “It’s just that I can’t work with a messy desk. Or room. Or with dirty laundry. Or with those dishes in the sink."
However, you’re also the reason I push myself so hard. You’re the reason I try new creative techniques to break myself out of any ruts I may find. You frustrate me to no end, but you also challenge me and keep me on my toes, forcing me to work harder and smarter to outdo you.
I guess you’re almost like a blessing in that way, writer’s block. Without you, sure, I could write endlessly for hours upon hours, never running out of things to say and ways to say them, but would the same satisfaction be there in the end—that satisfaction of knowing I am triumphant, that I did it? Maybe, but probably not, so I’m going to embrace you as an awful, tough-love sort of coach and motivator. I mean, it’s not like I have another choice. We’re stuck together.
(You still kind of suck, though.)
Sincerely,
A writer who hoped writing about writer’s block would unblock her writing.
