I have vignette writer’s block.
Everything’s a one-way trap right now. The world tumbles into my brain, sloshes around, and generates all sorts of feelings and sometimes snippets of thoughts, but I’m unable to form any sort of narrative.
It’s the evoked memory of feeling carefree as a child while looking at electric blue Forget-Me-Nots against a field of green, but having no story around that memory other than the moment of standing there, looking at at flowers.
It’s the undifferentiated rage that erupts past the seams of many layered, buried, and compartmentalized moments of anger across a lifetime, triggered by something completely outside of my control, leaving me shouting demonic gibberish at the universe in my inability to articulate anything coherent.
It’s the tender moment of a son reaching for my hand as we lay down together for a nap.
It’s the juxtaposition of a sublime, solitary pleasure while harvesting oysters and enjoying the wonders of the varied life in the tide flats contrasted with the unsolvable horror of turning to see the shore swarming with people and realizing I’m part of the swarm decimating the environment.
It’s the lost in time drowse, unsure if the memory gliding through is from today or years past.
It’s feeling the inevitable pull when looking at a demographic chart and noticing I’m already halfway or more, if I’m lucky.
Each moment a dewdrop that evaporates with the rising sun, but there’s no story to tie them together. No story at all.
I want to write more, I really, really do.
I have these bright, burning thoughts that churn and swoop, and I can even watch the movies in my head in crystal-clear, high definition. But after writing them down and reading them, they’re dim, redshifted stars obscured by dust.
George Carlin observed in his famous Seven Words You Can Never Say on Television routine, “…we have thoughts, but thoughts are fluid, then we assign a word to a thought and we’re stuck with that word for that thought…”
I hate being stuck, so I don’t write, which means it’s impossible to get stuck.
So I’m totally stuck in both directions.
Words bubble and churn inside of me. What I start isn’t what I need to expel. Miasma leaks out my fingers, spilling amber ichor through my keyboard. If only delete could erase this feeling as well as it clears the awkward words spattered across my screen.
Tripe is what it is! All teenaged melancholy angst, more awkwardly ugly when worn in graying middle age. Write! damn you, write! Put voice to the almost audible whispers. Drag those voices out into conscious daylight and watch them flower or shrivel as they will.
Nurture them or smite them, goad them or coax them, caress them or stomp them, lose them or hold them, cup them or discard them – they don’t care, they’re only words. Write! Write! Write! Write!
Write a dungheap of words to fertilize the thoughts, never mind the smell; to the dung beetle it’s gardenia wafting on a sea breeze under the Southern Cross. Pile it high, let it sit, then dig, dig deep and pull out the coprolites and build a holy altar from those words. Light a candle, meditate, write.
Write. Write. Write.
I’ve been blocked lately.
I open up project files, type a few new sentences, and then I delete them out of frustration because it’s all crap. No matter the genre, no matter if I try and write a middle or end, no matter if I try and do a character or locale exposition, no matter if it’s dialog or setting a scene, it just won’t flow.