On coping with writer’s block (or the lies we tell ourselves along the way)

A Great read!

Black coffee and cigarettes

writing 2

I haven’t written in a very long time.

I joined a creative writing class a while ago to help me through my ‘writer’s block’ – can you call yourself a writer if you don’t write? – and I managed to produce a total of 500 words over the entire four-week course. A paltry amount by any standards, though the course itself was brilliant.

One of the suggestions from my fellow writers was to write about why I don’t write. I’ve been thinking a lot about the reasons I don’t write lately so this seemed as good a place to kick off my writing again as any. And also address why I call myself a writer in the first place – a hard sell in the writing void of the last few months.

In my professional life, I have been a public relations consultant, a journalist and now, an editor. Words play…

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Journal intime

intimacy, how shall I define it. It’s the feeling that you need your dose of solitude, and it soon drives you into an overdose of loneliness. Not that is necessarily bad or anything, but when our minds start to create their own independent worlds, it doesn’t have to be rosy, nor is it a courageous stance singling us out from the herd. in my case, my overdose of solitude is a sign of my mind being extremely tired, my soul worn out and both cry for a sort of intangible, unseen, miraculous help. Once your mind becomes your worst enemy, make sure you get out of the fight sound and safe. Though unlikely, you have to do your best not to let it be your fiercest enemies, but your best allies. It’s not easy, I know, I’m still there, swinging between being lethargic, super active, crying and smiling without an obvious reason, and most of all, snatching myself away from the people I love, by hurting them a lot so that they have to reject me. It is as if I need to fill my heart with as many stupid and hurtful things as possible, so that I can find my way through a forced process of cleansing, for I know I am not the kind of people who can carry on a life scarring people here and there. Yet, the disaster is that I can carry on living holding a grudge against myself, against my life, holding my aching heart into my hands and bleeding non stop…p03l60lz