Write, write, write.
That’s the mantra that runs through my head like a bullet slowly razing its way through brain matter. And, yet.
I haven’t been able to write in a couple months. Be it school, grading, a break-up, or self-imposed creative censure, my brain is not producing. This is an extended block, a crippling period of non-production.
This winter, I wrote like crazy. Six finished stories in 3 months.Maybe I need perpetual winter. Maybe I just need to shut the hell up and write, even if it’s garbage, garbage for a while.
Maybe I need to update this thing more often. Maybe the time between posts is some sort of unintended metaphor for my writing state.
Robert Olen Butler says you can’t write from “ideas,” that you have write from the place you dream, blah blah blah. True? I don’t know. What if that dream space is not really offering up anything in terms of ideas/images/scenes/settings? How do you emerge from this place of inactivity to a place of pure vibrancy, where words and sentences and good fiction explode from the brain, unabated?