by Jon Biddle
I know what I have to do as I sit and watch the cursor flash mercilessly at me, like a constant reminder that I am not writing. I wish it did something else, like somersaults or sit back and read the paper. But no, the cursor blinks benignly at me, taunting, goading, and mocking me. It is almost like it knows I’m as barren as a scorched field. I can hear it “You’re kidding yourself that you actually have anything worthy to write about Jon”.
Which, of course, is all nonsense!
Prolific writers talk about the myth that is writer’s block – that it doesn’t exist as a concept, and we can always write something through determination and hard work.
Which again is nothing but nonsense!
While writing is hard work and requires an inordinate amount of dedication, writing is a gift, a joy. The endeavour through the process to its completion is always something to be thankful for.
We are all born creative. It’s a natural gift we as humans have. Whether it’s writing, painting, drawing, pottery, nail art, building, weaving magic with words or making music. I even marvel at the creative thinking that goes into organisation, the beauty behind those with green fingers and the inspiration people have with a needle and thread. Benjamin Franklin quoted death and taxes bind us all, that it’s the one thing we have in common, but I think we should include the unrecognised act of creativity. It’s the one reason the human species has achieved exponentially through the ages, innovation born from inspired creativity.
The bedrock of humanities’ innovative drive to become better. Everything in life starts as a creative thought. The genius of our existence is the creative flow that enriches our existence. History is ubiquitous with people that have changed the world through the creative drive. Who am I to question the words I write, because who knows they may one day shape someone’s life. Look at Shakespeare, did he realise his plays would become part of English literature?
So why the block then? if it doesn’t exist, and the joy of writing is something that I die in anticipation of, well…
There’s a clinical reason for the block that is backed up with years of clinical evidence.
Which bodes true.
It should be easy. Writing is something as a writer I love to do, it’s my football on a Saturday morning, my rock climbing in the Welsh Mountains, writing is my horse stabled snuggly in their stalls waiting to be ridden, my easel holding up my oil painting and the song ready to be sung. Writing is my grounding, the one thing that brings me meaning to this world. The one thing I simply can’t do without.
But writing is the one thing that opens the valve of torment, pressure, and frustration.
Sitting here and watching that interminable flickering of the cursor augmenting my torment, isolating me further. I realise that my life is my words, and when I have more than I can handle, there is no way for the valve to open. Creativity takes a back seat and self preservation takes over.
My thoughts are clouding my judgements, and these thoughts of abuse were subversive and clandestine in their modality. These thoughts previously unheard of by me are now being exposed. Scurrying about like lice under a rock, avoiding the rays of the sun that burn their backs. But when the rock is upturned, and we reveal them to be nothing more than miniature thoughts which can be washed away with a single positive action, we have to wonder why we are in such turmoil.
Addiction is cunning. It devises a way to separate, isolate and destroy me, if I imagine my addiction to be a person, trying hard to hang onto the control he has over me. It is almost easier to defeat them. Some days the battle might be lost, but the war, well that will be one I will undoubtably win.
There’s no secret here. As humans, we are all part of our own personal additive cycle, if we know it. I am just part of a larger collective. So maybe if we are all part of an addictive cycle but have the gift of creativity, is this our secret weapon?
This realisation has eased the frustration of my block. I glimpsed light through the darkness of my thoughts. It’s still there, the creative genius in my writing. I just have to recognise my enemy and use the right weapons to destroy him.
