“Writer’s Block is a myth. We just need to learn to take advantage of our creative spark when it’s there, and put down the pencil when it’s not.” This is a fair hypothesis from a friend and fellow co-worker of mine, a hypothesis that I’m currently neutral on. For the past few hours I’ve been banging my head against the wall, a figurative wall that is, and that wall based on this hypothesis could all be in my head. After all, my creative spark has likely already burned out after spending the whole week on college finals, so in this case he might be right.
Deadlines won’t wait for your creative spark to strike fire however. So where do we go from here? As my weekly deadline to write an article for the Odyssey approaches; I can feel the weasels closing in, to paraphrase the author, Hunter S. Thompson. Normally I use Kratom when I’m stuck under these grim circumstances; a natural supplement that can strike creative sparks out of nowhere. Perhaps I should use it for this instance, however listening to Pink Floyd and Syd Barrett for the past hour has just inspired an idea, finally. An experiment if you’ll bear with me. Let’s dive deep into the introspective depths of fiction and journey through a portal that warps reality into fantasy…
…A short story I wrote using lyrics from Pink Floyd and Syd Barrett as dialogue:
"Hello, is there anybody in there? Just nod if you can hear me." The psychiatrist voiced in concern hovering over his patient. "The lunatic is in my head." the patient muttered before slipping back out of consciousness. “How I wish, how I wish you were here.” the patient’s girlfriend sulked in the corner. The psychiatrist then pierced a needle of adrenaline into his arm. He watched as the patient’s eyes bulged open and listened as the patient once again spoke; “You raise the blade, you make the change, you re-arrange me till I’m sane!” The psychiatrist stared at him, unsure of what to do, there seemed to be no cure for the patient’s mental condition that he was aware of at the moment.
The patient fumed with rage, grabbing a nearby scalpel, and cornered the psychiatrist. “I’m going to cut you into little pieces!” Before the psychiatrist could react, he saw a silhouette of his own blood as the patient carved into him. Then the patient’s eyes veered towards his girlfriend who stood helpless and horrified on the other side of the room; “Cloudless every day you fall upon my waking eyes, inviting and inciting me to rise.” words that would haunt her for the rest of her life.
Their glances were soon disrupted by a deafening alarm; “They’re gonna send you back to mother in a cardboard box, you better run!” she screamed at him. But it was too late; he was met by a group of guards standing by the door. “You lock the door, throw away the key, there’s someone in my head, but it’s not me!” He yelled as they cuffed him.
"Nobody knows where you are, how near or how far.” She spoke through a phone behind the glass that separated them. “I was half the way down, treading the sand. Please, please lift a hand; I’m only a person whose armbands beat on his hands.” He helplessly replied from the other side. She paused for a moment staring at him. “Now there’s a look in your eyes, like black holes in the sky.” She observingly replied. “I’m only a person with eskimo chain, I tattooed my brain all the way. It’s what you see, it must be me, it’s what I am, vegetable man.” He sobbed. “You reached for the secret too soon.” She said sympathetically. “It’s awfully considerate of you to think of me here, and I’m much obliged to you for making it clear that I’m not here.” He coldly replied. “Well you wore out your welcome, with random precision!” She shouted before stomping away. “Won’t you miss me? Wouldn’t you miss me at all!?” He yelled through the glass before heading back to his cell.
“If you don’t eat your meat, you can’t have any pudding!” His cellmate scowled when he arrived back, it appeared he was about to have a new lover in his life whether he liked it or not.
Now let’s step back into the real world. It’s amazing what music can inspire in writing. I think music is a great way to help wean yourself through when you’re at a loss for ideas of what to write about. Listening to music or playing your own instrument for that matter is a great way to fuel the creative thought process. However is writer’s block real, or just a myth? I suppose that’s a debate other writers will have to wage on for now, and something I can only ponder about.
