Hi there! Thanks for stopping by Homestead Lane. Can you believe it's been since last March that we chatted? My how time does fly. Lots going on, and I'd love to tell you about it, but it's going to have to wait. I really need to get something off my chest. Do you have a minute? I need to write myself through something so pretend you're my most trusted confidant, get yourself a glass of wine, or a cup of tea, or a beer, whatever you fancy, and thanks for listening.
You see, I've got a bit of writers block. I'm feeling uninspired. I had a burst of excitement a few weeks ago when I wrote a short story as a response to a question on a writing grant I was applying for, and it felt so good, but really other than that, it's been the desert in my head. In the words of the brilliant Liz Lemon, Bergh.
Look over there in the bio line underneath my picture. Laura Ingalls Wilder meets Carrie Bradshaw who is reading Thoreau. These days it's more like Snoopy meets Roseanne Barr reading Cathy comics.
I sit down to write something just for me, not for the wonderful, brilliant clients I have (which incidentally, I have no problem writing for) and nothing comes. I can't just jump into writing my book. I need a warm up. So I sit at this blog and think of something purposeful to write about, and I can't. I don't feel it. Fortheloveofgod I'm writing an entry on how I don't have anything to write about.
Sylvia has a brilliant book called Stuck by Oliver Jeffers. It's about a boy who gets his kite stuck in a tree. He throws his shoe up to dislodge it, but the shoe gets stuck as well. Then he throws another item to get the shoe unstuck and that gets stuck too. It continues like this, him throwing items to get the previous stuck item unstuck, yet resulting in all the items stuck in a tree, including a curious whale in the wrong place at the wrong time.
I'm Stuck. My book is in a tree, and I throw so many things at it - adventure: the more I experience, the more I will be inspired to write; exercise: getting my adrenaline running and blood moving will help; work: flexing my fingers and exercising my brain for freelance writing will help, being in a positive place about work helps me be positive about writing in general; socializing: being out there, in the world, with friends, that will help; reading: other writers words will help me – but so far, my book is still in that tree.
People, friends, neighbors always ask, "How's the book going?" because I'm Sarah the Writer. And I answer, "It's good. I've bookmarked one day per week that's totally devoted to writing, just for me. And I'm applying for a big, huge writing grant, so hopefully I'll get it. I'm really hopeful."And then they'll say, "I can't wait to read it." And I'll jokingly answer, "Me too!"
But it's true. I can't wait until it's done. It's the longest, most painful, torturous labor I've ever endured. Because I'm stuck. There's a baby stuck in this birth canal. Ladies, imagine the pain here.... am I right?! I've barely used that day I set aside just to write for me. And then, the aforementioned grant was cancelled for this year. It was a big, humongous, motivating grant. I'm applying for lots of little grants, and am still just as hopeful that I'll get them too, this one was just big and life-changing.
I haven't lost hope. I'm just stuck.
I turned 38 in September and I promised myself that this was the year the book would be finished. Not published or edited or on bookshelves. Just finished. It seemed like an achievable goal at the time. Now a month and some change later, not another page has been written, and I'm letting that small voice of doubt creep into my head. What's going to shake this feeling of uninspiration? What can I do about it? Because we all know, unhappiness starts and ends here, right at my feet. (hmmmm... maybe a manicure....) I need to shake it. I need to be inspired. I have the power to do both these things.
Here's how the book ends, in case you're wondering. At the very moment the boy runs out of things to throw at the tree, his kite falls out. He's overjoyed because he totally forgot about his kite. He spends the rest of the day enjoying his kite.
