the mission is quite simple: set out and conquer a painful stumble in many otherwise smooth sailing literary genius. killing it or complete destruction isn't necessary should the this canter remain intact, the main goal would be a symbiotic relationship with the writer, out of the way. a question remains whether or not writers block is a living entity or simply a trivial paradox in midst of its presence a form of obstacle undeniable is it something that is in our step, or is it just in the way. is it both?
how would i conquer this? one attempt i find more like boring tale of days in life without drive or inspiration. should there be a cure in all of that? there's got to be a way to explain.
i knew someone, in the past, he needed two thirds of the day to leave a cluttered apartment. about a foot and a half from the floor a military cot was his place to null the buzzing cognition. a dream until the noise to brings reality. located next to the window blinds down and no sun. organization came and went with the inspirational tide many have felt.
sometimes just sitting and solid meditation. the position or angle didn't matter as much as balancing effort and true stillness. in this state it would be easier to centralize goals. this was the priority and in high regard: balance and center.
not a word slapped with silence. a few minutes phase out gracefully.
no longer sprawled out on the cot, a chair holds position; a comfortable pose near a drafting table.
leaning forward, a moment of inspiration plays it's part while arms arch around both sides of the page, like a still life animation. seated at the desk pondering what ways facilitated the ability to harness the creativity in need of extraction.
the mind floods with phone calls to friends, and job offers or plans. the list just plays in the background endlessly.
repositioning posture, you can hear the skeletal structure pop in a stretch. now the pen is rapidly leaving a trail of coherency; finally the structure in mind to really compose.
ten minutes ago just hovering in the corner of the mind playing back like a destructive black hole of one's own experiences; the theme varied. it didn't take long to realize the main goal again: conquer writer's block.
the young author cracks a grin and sharpens a pencil, then another, and of course, another. suspiciously unable to let it go decides this time to sharpen one with a rather striking utility knife, really like a mini spear, perhaps more like a surgical tool in all honesty.
why not pay attention to detail? now just carefully holding precision; selectively choosing the tools and holding inspiration by the desire at one time to be an architect. an engineer wouldn't have hurt
the drafting table, and one thing for sure
you need a well sharpened writing device. perhaps putting it to use wouldn't be so off topic either.
what is the purpose of distraction anyway? not too obviously, it comes up rather easily. anything serves as an excuse. how common is it to place a collective effort into this trap? is it really a snare, beating the drum of idle time, or just a place you go when unable proceed? should there be worry if falling distant from the main goal?
what was the main objective? perhaps documentation. perhaps art or both a trail of history. mix in ideals, and now you have fiction.
the true illness that plagues the writer isn't the block itself. it's the cluster of words needed it's the images drawn from them that form a picture that implies that one photo holding all the literary value. it stands out like a dis ease begging for a cure. just to break away from the clouds and back to the scattered tools rather than gaze into space blankly is this the motion picture so desired? why the vision of doing this? slapped back into the source of inspiration, only to realize it had left. that blank stare is more like a look of confusion at this point.
the pencil most likely over sharpened and shorter than normal made it's way to the table followed by a sigh. in a catalyst of inspiration, probably by the overwhelmingly good odds of some writing ahead due to all those pencils, a grasp yields another pencil butchered with a utility knife until it's just a stub. to whom it concerned, at the moment, this pencil is the writer's block.
another adjustment of posture, perhaps a bit fluid and pronounced. that simple act and posture change was intense. it must have been due to bottled rage. you see, unused pencils did not amuse.
after a long exhale, swept shreds of pencil shavings in a pile and this tale, along with this box of shavings, is the conclusion somewhat unsettling. i still have no idea whether writer's block can be solved in this manner. still, i believe there was a moment of peace and perhaps in some small way there was also temporary relief from a truly annoying issue.