I stare onto a half empty worked piece of literary art. It is half worked, and half empty, lonely; a white lined dessert. I am at a loss. No inspiration cometh. My well is dry, my fountain dribbles bitter water.
It is in these times that I struggle for anything to help and find that the worlds O have been creating will not let me in – No Access Pass! The hundreds of characters that I have intimately inked hide themselves behind this mysterious door of my brain.
I look over the various stories I have passionately begun to write, the several novels I had started, some nearly finished. I know the outlines and try to move them along, yet they remain motionless. I am the Writer, yet my characters refuse to move; plot will not play out, conflict stands still, and characters avoid development.
Even tonight, a perfect night to stay awake all night and write – I am frozen, literally and literally. Creativity has given me ideas to build upon, but, at the same time, the door into my mental workshop stays tightly locked- keeping me out.
I am Blocked.
Writers Block. Why? Is my mind blocking my ability to write, or is creativity (as if it were a person) blocking my entering in to these worlds I need to enter into to finish these great stories.
It is as if the characters have locked the door. The created have conspired. Mutiny. The Created vs. Their Creator.
Or could it be that the stories have called to me, and knowing my present stress forbid me from telling their stories; they fearing mis-interpretation?
I will attempt to sleep and wake early. Maybe the quiet and darkness, the calmness and peacefulness of the early morning will bring to me the blessing of the Muse (or whatever creative spirit there is that sets artists aflame) which will help me to hear better.
Possibly then, I will fall asleep to the stresses of the busyness and wisdom of the world of selfish men and awaken into the realm of creative imagination, and then -only then, I will be given access into their worlds. Them: the characters, which live only in my sub conscience until their exodus to white, paper filled promised lands, will finally turn the key and open the door to me, knowing that I am finally fully listening.