White pages don’t thrill me much. Often, they appear as an enemy with a bazooka when all I have are bunny slippers and a bad hair-do. I only see them as a friend when I have a flash of inspiration, a secretive whisper from the muse. The empty space where I compose this blog has forgone the bazooka in favor of a tank with heat-seeking missiles.
It isn’t just figurative. My thoughts disappear faster than caffeinated drinks during finals week when faced with a blank document. Where there should be rich, flowing prose or lyrical poetry is instead naked. I don’t have trouble expressing my thoughts face-to-face, I swear. Could it be that I just need more personal interaction? Eh, no such luck.
I am tackling one of the biggest problems of writer’s block or, in my case, writer’s blog block. (I have said writer’s block doesn’t exist… read on.) I am beginning to think what I have to say isn’t interesting and, if that happens, continuing my journey into “writer-land” isn’t going to last. Writers aren’t supposed to be boring. I want to be thought of as refreshing, invigorating, unique, or just NOT dull.
If I believe I am interesting, does that mean I am? Well, I know the answer. But it does mean I will keep jotting things down. If I fool myself, maybe I can fool you guys too. Right? Uh, right? Guys? Oh well, I fooled myself long enough to finish this.
***Friday I will talk about maybe getting a local poetry group together. I know, something I said would be a horrible idea but what can I say? I’m a glutton for punishment.