This past month – January of 2017 – I learned something both important and very, very disquieting. What is this newfound knowledge? Well, it’s information about myself. And that information is that I have never, until just recently, actually experienced writer’s block.
Throughout the years I have claimed, on numerous occasions, to have been suffering from writer’s block. I’ve had awful months during which I wrote next to nothing, and I’ve had months during which my own works-in-progress made me want to put my head through a wall. I’ve had as many issues concerning my writing as any writer can claim to have had, and I’ve often lumped those problems under a blanket statement of, “I’ve got major writer’s block right now”.
But now I know that I’ve never truly suffered from writer’s block – not until this particular past month.
You see, despite both a desire and a determination to start taking my writing more seriously, I wrote a grand total of 358 words of fiction throughout the entire month of January, and depressingly, that wasn’t for lack of trying. I did find January to be a particularly busy month, so it would be easy to blame that for my lack of productivity, but it would be a lie, because I did, in fact, sit down to write multiple times. And each of those times I opened Scrivener, my hands hovered above the keyboard, and I wrote positively nothing.
I’ve never experienced this phenomenon before – this strange emptiness of mind. Several times this past month I’ve stared at blank screens, my brain completely and utterly empty and unwilling to offer anything at all, until I eventually gave up and closed Scrivener.
The words just won’t come.
I’ve even tried hopping between works-in-progress in the hopes that one of them would spark something, anything… But alas. For the first real time in my life, my creative well is totally dry. I have nothing to say. And that both scares and bewilders me.