On Writer's Block:

Hey Folks!  


Guest Author today.  PAX was great, but I am thoroughly wiped out.  I have so much real-world stuff to get done TODAY that it isn't even a joke.  And, because this is an absolutely beautiful piece, I thought now would be the best time to share this with you.


Today's submission comes from Aaron, who seems to be able to write ridiculously articulate and compelling and downright amazing stuff, even when he claims to be having Writer's Block.  Sheesh.  


This is something the husband wrote whilst suffering a bout of Writer's Block as he worked on one of his projects.  


Please enjoy, and Please comment-- He is a reluctant blogger and I am trying to coax him over to posting on the regular!


Enjoy!

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(Catharsis)

            I want to write.  I long, desperately, to feel the optimistic clicking of keys at my fingertips.  I want to feel the purpose and meaning it brings to my hands and head; all I am is hands and head, and my body is only a machine to sustain them.  I need to feel connected to the words, to some words, any words.  Connected and tangled.  I want to be tangled up in it.  I want.  I want.  I want.  I want.  I want...

But I can’t.

I want.

But...

I can’t...

Do.

Just put the words down, pull them.  Collect them from your mind like clay from a riverbank.  Set them on the page, on the wheel.  Only when you’ve collected all of the soft, clay words should you become preoccupied with form or function.  Write from the heart, not from the head.  Hell, write from the loins, the spleen for fuck’s sake; anywhere but the head. 

Write from the hands.  Let them do what they long to do.  Let them feel it.  It’s been so long.  They feel tired and stiff, dry and old.  Or is that the head? 

The head is a fortress.  A kingdom built too quickly, harshly, haphazardly.  I thought that I’d begun to make sense of the chaos of the head.  I thought I’d begun to take the many pieces of my broken head and build with them.  I thought I was building something strong, something lasting.  But when I step back and gain perspective, it’s a mess; globs of oozed mortar, hardened and gray, on the face of it; no windows, no light.  It’s a mess of stone and wood, and clay.  And it appears that I haven’t used my own pieces at all.  All of the walls are made of stolen materials, and the chaos is still there behind the ill-gotten, ill-conceived facade.  It’s just hidden away now, clamoring uselessly beneath the flimsy walls of a shabby, magpie fortress; every now and then a little burst chaos escapes.  How long til the walls come down?

How long until I fall apart again?

This sucks.

There’s no meaning in this, no depth or purpose.  Only catharsis.  I’m jerking off, when I should be fucking.  And the worst part is that there is no satisfaction.  I’m just whacking off with my half limp dick until it chafes, until it bleeds. 

But I never get to come.

Why?  What happened?  I want this.  I want to write meaningfully.  Why am I so painfully not-good-enough?  Why can’t I do it?  Why did I think I could?  Why did it seem like I could.  Is this how dreams die?  I had imagined it being faster, more obvious.

Fuck.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  

Fuck.