Truth time: I've had writers block for three, maybe four years. Maybe even five. When was the last time I wrote something fantastic? Something I dreamt about and awoke in the middle of the night, jotting in a blurry fever? It happens on rare and inspired occasion, but, sadly, "rare" is the focal word.
I remember in college, walking along the ship canal on the way to Fremont, writing in my head about rivers swelling into monster heads, gaping mouth ready to swallow me into darkness. I loved to write then, the burning in my busom a constant warmth. But I was also lonely then, and sad.
Jen, my roommate, had a lot of friends in college. The kind of friends who had bonfires on the beach at Golden Gardens, who snuck champagne into the dorms and took camping trips on Labor Day weekend. I, on the other hand, had boyfriends. One at a time, of course. It's not that I'm needy or that I even particularly like romance (in fact, I dislike it, but that's another issue). Moreso, I am a "best friend" kind of gal. In elementary school, I always had one friend, one great friend, who was with me all the time. The same went for college, except that in college, girls were more interested in dating boys and having tons to girlfriends to be my bestie. Jen was a friend from elementary school, and while we loved each other dearly, college meant the natural growing apart from our childhood selves. So in lieu of a best friend scenario, I chose boyfriends.
Having a boyfriend was a new thing for me--I didn't really date in high school, and I definitely wasn't one of those kids who "dated" in the fifth grade. But in my desperation for a daily buddy, my boyfriends sufficed in the best friend role. And it was a good thing. I'm still fond of the people I dated.
All this to say, I was pretty lonely in college, but my loneliness fueled creativity and creativity somehow gave way to a subtle pleasure. I loved writing. I love the idea of creating something out of nothing, of leaving something behind, of imprinting your thoughts into something tangible, readable.
This kind of sad, melancholy-driven artisanship, is not sustainable, however, and after I graduated, I found my own group of bonfire friends. And as I grew happier, and as I glowed in the light of new adventures, I began to fear writing.
It's a chicken or the egg situation with me and writing. Does the "sad" come first, or the writing? Or does the writing induce the sad? For years, I didn't want to find out. I was happy being happy, and I didn't need writing bringing me down, emo-ing me up, and bringing darkness into my new-found light.
But this kind of light--the light of experience and newness and novelty--is also not sustainable. And over time, my heart has felt the gap where writing used to be, the deep-dark glow of the long-sad nights of laying it all out on paper. And once again, I grew lonely. And once again, I wanted to write.
Writer's block, however, is a bitch. And the pressure of writing, just like the pressure of trying to recapture some past and sacred emotion--like romance--is heavy and impossible. How can I get back to that place of blissful writing sadness, that pandora's box of weird emotion and creative energy? Do I have to get all "thinky" again? Do I have to tap into my inner goth-child, my tired angsty teenager? Or is there a new fountain of creativity--an adult kind, a confident kind, a kind of creativity that is compatible with the woman I have become. A creativity that recognizes my growth, my healthy passion, my fear and persistence?
I hope so. Because I miss this. And wan, lonely me from college yesteryear needs to meet the woman she will become, just as much as who I am today must reconnect with her roots, find her glasses, and get her nerd on.
I like to think there's a happy medium.
