Tag

writer’s block

Let’s try this again

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I haven’t sat down to write all summer. Except once, one half-hearted post.

I have missed writing so much.

I could attribute it to working 10-12 hour days, or the heat, or being so exhausted, or writer’s block, or my computer breaking, or just simply not having enough time.

But really, it doesn’t matter why, does it?

What matters is that I have missed it. I need it back.

Writing is so good for me.

There’s so many posts that have been swimming around in my head. Words and sentences floating about that want to be collected and transformed into some semblance of coherence.

I’m going to try.

I have so much to say. About work, about kids and meltdowns and strategies and lessons. About life, about authenticity and discovery. About stories and truth-telling and being real. About everything.

And yet.

I think about finally having this time, and I freeze. My fingers freeze, my mind stops. I can’t find the words and the paragraphs I had so eloquently written in my head are nowhere to be found.

But gently, I will coax them out. Gently, I will return to this habit. Gently, I will find my voice again.

I can’t wait.

Writer’s Block

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I could write about the activities we’ve been doing in speech, but I don’t have anything new and innovative to talk about.

I could tell you the funny things my students have said, but it’s hard to convey the humor in written form.

I could write about how much I hate MCAS and PARCC but it’s nothing that others haven’t said.

I could tell you what’s been going on with Bella, and share the latest social story I wrote, but do people want to read that?

I could write the follow-up from my Musings post, but I’m avoiding it.

I could finish the post I’ve been trying to write about panic and anxiety, but I just can’t get it right.

I could write a “10 Reasons I Love My Cats” post, but really, who wants to read that?

I could do a book review of a great series that I read recently, but I don’t know if I’d do a good job.

I could try to write a fictional piece, but none have come to me.

Really, I just feel like this.

What should I write about? What do you want to read?

Month-old journaling bits, day-old responses

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I want to write, so badly, that I can’t. This is not a new feeling. I keep opening word documents, blank blog posts. I know I just need momentum. I know once I get going, I’ll go. But that blank page – it puts pressure on me, to write something extraordinary. And the more pressure, and the more want, the less I can do it. I go back and forth between “I have so much to say” and “I have nothing to say”. I have thoughts, snippits, of ideas of topics – but when I allow them to settle into my fingers, I get all blocked up. Every idea and thought I have sounds stupid.

Just write, just let the words pour out of your fingers. There is no expectation, there is no requirement. You write for you, and therefore, whatever you say is just fine.

Sometimes I wish I wrote fiction.

You could. You could write fiction. Just like you could write poetry. There are no standards, just the ones you fear exist.

I wanted to write about the “too much” vs. “not enough” thing. I don’t really know how to explain it, though, only just feel it. With someone people I worry I’m too much. Too needy, too anxious, too dependent, too self-centered. With others, I worry I’m not enough. Not caring enough, I don’t check in enough, not funny enough, not supportive enough. I’m not good enough in general. And all of that results in a lot of spinny thoughts, ruminations, anxieties. I wonder what it would be like to just…be. I wonder why I automatically jump to the conclusions and fears of being simultaneously too much and not enough – and I wonder, does anyone else do that? Is it yet another “Jen thing” or can anyone else relate? What is it like to just be and do without a constant analysis of real and perceived events and outcomes?

Remember that you certainly do not always feel this way. It’s been a theme in your life, but it is not a constant of a day to day. Remember how many interactions and moments you have now that you don’t analyze or question, and you felt this way in this moment when you wrote this, but you don’t feel this way all of the time. You are very good at just being. You’ve come so far. Remember that your analytical, anxious, obsessive brain will always have a tendency toward this, but it no longer consumes you. Remember that presence of thoughts matters far less than reactions to those thoughts.

but this is not poetry

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there are no words.
there are feelings and sounds and aches and pulses and colors and sights
but how do i put those into words?
the same way that i still can’t capture the wind
or the smell of fresh air
or the feeling of joy
i can’t turn….this, all of this
into words, into sentences, into coherence.

Things I could write about

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I could write about how I got my nails done yesterday for the first time in months, in a super dark shade of purple/plum. But people don’t care about that.

I could write about the cauliflower soup I made yesterday. But I’m not a food blogger.

I could write about how I smelled and sensed snow in the air today. But there are no poetic words floating about in my head.

I could write about how, after two weeks off for vacation, I’m a little anxious at the thought of diving back into the joyful insanity of work again. I guess I could share how after every vacation I notice a little voice of fear in my head, wondering if I’ll somehow forget to be a good speech-language pathologist when I go back.

I suppose I could write about not knowing what to write. But I always do that.

I could talk about how the news, the articles, the talk of rape and rape culture and doubts and accusations and shame are breaking my heart, but I can’t stop reading.

I could attempt to explain how I am fairly confident that shame is the opposite of compassion, and the reason people shame themselves and feel shame for their decisions and experiences is due to the fear of being met with shame; if they knew they’d be met with compassion, they might find it a tiny bit easier to find compassion for themselves.

I could write about how it’s so much easier to say things to other people, to believe things for other people, than for ourselves.

I guess I could write how my grief comes and goes, and I’m not quite sure what to do with it. But I don’t have any words.

I could talk about my ever-ongoing battle of nurturing the introvert/routine-follower in me, and going out of my comfort zone/pushing myself a little bit. There’s a line somewhere between the two but it’s sometimes hard to see.

I could continue rambling on about anxiety or sensitivity or life. But I have nothing profound to say, and I write about those topics too much.

I guess I could write about any of those topics.
But I don’t have the words. I don’t have the courage. I don’t have the initiative.

So today, yet again, I’m not going to write.