A disease fully taking over…

by Camelia Miron Skiba

Writer’s block. I’ve been trying to ignore it—really hard and for almost a year now. Tried to pretend it didn’t exist. Tried to call it lack of inspiration, lack of time, lack of interest. Refused to call it by its name, for fear that if I do it it’ll take up residency inside of me, kicking my muse out of her sparkling cocoon and take complete reign over my mind. Told myself it can’t happen to me if I don’t believe in it.

All my attempts at ignore it are futile. It’s here. Full blown and in complete control of my creativity, or rather over it. Imagine a dried lake, its bottom cracked and barren. Or a solid, heavy, and dark curtain of clouds covering the entire sky, without a ray of sunshine sneaking in. Or a heart, so broken just trying to put the pieces together seems like an impossible mission (not even Tom Cruise would go for it!).

I know I’m not the only writer suffering from it, in fact at any given time, I guarantee there is an endless number of writers suffering from it. This writer’s block is a disease and should be recognized by the International Medical Association (if such thing doesn’t exist, then by the American Medical Association). Someone should come up with a pill or a treatment of some sort. We treat acne, warts and hemorrhoids (yes, I kind of think of writer’s block as a similar affliction), why can’t we find a treatment for writer’s block???

At first I was in denial. Then I panicked. I wanted to scream and kick, hopelessly. All those stories still trapped in my mind with no way out—what am I going to do? Am I going to ever find a way back to writing? Will my muse return after she’d been brutally booted out of her cocoon? Will she trust me that she’s safe with me? Would I ever write another book?

Questions. Dwelling. Frustration. Panic. Wondering. Pain. Pain I no longer have what I loved so much. Pain at times hard to endure, and all I really want is curl up on the floor and cry my heart out. Just typing these words makes me feel . . . defeated. But then . . . wait a minute . . . there is a tiny voice—very vague and from very, very far away—that says, “Don’t give up. Be patient. Keep hoping. Keep waiting for the sun to come out, it will eventually. It always does, no matter the hurricane.” She sounds very much like . . . my muse. Will she ever return?

 

 

 

 

 

 

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