The stage is set and the play ready to begin. But wait, the story has not been completed yet? The show must go on. Right? So, will improvisation work...Ah, no. I doubt it. It’s too late for that. Okay, then what’s the solution? Cancel the show!? Uh?!

Or let the audience decide and pick what the story will be like? O, but how??

Aight, you know what. The story will go on. To next time. For now, it’s back to re~writing the script. With a different set of characters. That might just do the trick!

I just hope the current characters don’t mind if the story is changed, a wee bit. Okey, let us get to work. The show will carry on!

#Character(s).

A desire to write,

Anything,

Anything at all

Ideas banging on ivory walls,

At once, eager to escape,

And then longing to stay

In their home of origin

Words bouncing around my head,

Over and over again

However hard I try,

The ink won't spill,

Not even with all my might

I try to force the thoughts together,

Hoping they'll form a cohesive metaphor

It's all for naught,

My mind suffering a draught

Whatever stories I have inside,

Simply refuse to come to life

I was sitting here trying to think of what to write for this challenge, and then realized that I was experiencing some writer's block.

I mean really?

Come on.

(Honestly, I have nothing else to add to this, I just thought that I would share.)

When my muse is gone, and I am completely forced to just stare at the brick walls or empty blank pages, I hide behind other projects, which I’ve started working on. Music also energizes and revives my inspiration. A long walk in the park, or just sitting by the creeks, helps a lot, too.

Once my brain inhales the fresh oxygen, or forgets the current project I intended to complete, words seem to fall in line and just screen in my head; they want to come out and dance on the blank pages.

After my pen is finally done crying, and my fingers move not any longer, I then wonder, why did I even have a writer’s block to begin with?

I’ve writer’s block

When looking ’round

Words to use

Describing sounds

Do creeks go gush

Or do they gurgle?

Water’s noise?

Oh how I babble

Bumblebees

With wings, abuzz

I whir in search

The sound, thereof

Spicy; hot?

Perhaps use sizzle?

That falls flat

My words all fizzle

A tap; a jolt

The clock, a clack

Or is it click

The tone of that?

Moan or murmur

Zip or bop

Must be right

The phrase to pop

Within my ears

Bum, bum; lub, dub

The only sounds

I’m conscious of

It happened right after college. I was working a full-time assistant store manager job and was exhausted. Both physically and mentally drained to my core. My only thoughts were of work and getting home to pass out and sleep. At work I never had a moment to myself. I changed to an office job that ended up being just as stressful with phones ringing off the hook, interrupting every train of thought I had. I would start to have an interesting idea about a story and then brrrinnngg! I hated that phone. The obnoxious idea killer.

It wasn’t until I moved out of state and got into a new job that my mind was able to wander again. Every day on my drive to work I would be amazed by the bright reds, oranges, greens and yellows of the leaves on all the trees in springtime. I fell in love with all of these large old trees along my commute. I gave each one a story. With the largest weeping willow I ever saw in my life being my favorite. The tall weeping willows extended its branches down over one side of the road. Semi-trucks would drive right under the tree and be a perfect fit to get through without moving the thin, flexible branches. While the city I live in is a hub for transportation, I saw this tree as being the central hub for transporting natures creatures. I liked to think that little animals could use those branches and drop down on the semi-trucks. Hitching a ride around town with the wind blowing through their fur.

It was through this change in scenery and job that I was able to get out of my rut of writer’s block.

I had a brilliant idea for a story this morning while half-awake at 3 am. Now I am here in front of the computer. Won't hurt to catch up on news while the coffee's brewing, and then I'll open Word and get started. Mistake. I get so enraged by reading the political headlines that I can feel my jaw clench. I take a few deep breaths and try to relax. Coffee ready, I stare at my blank word document and vainly try to remember my masterpiece. All I can think of is the list of chores for today and wonder if my husband took the car for inspection yesterday as he was supposed to. I decide to fold laundry, the theory being that my mind will soar to great heights while my hands are occupied. Mistake. Someone left a tissue in a pocket and my favorite black sweater is covered in white fuzz. I give up on it for now and decide to check email. Mistake. It's pretty much all spam. I don't dare check Facebook, but it wouldn't hurt to read some celebrity gossip to lighten my mood. Mistake. I jump guiltily when I realize it's been thirty minutes. I switch back to Word. My mind is as blank as the page. Finally, I make a deal with myself. I am not allowed to do anything else until I have put two hundred words, any words, on the page. I take a deep breath, type as rapidly as I can, hit save and walk away. I am not allowed to re-read and pick it apart until tomorrow. I walk away with a light step and my head held high.

So hard, so hard, the first words, like the first drops from an overcast sky which release the torrent welled up behind them in waiting for the sign that it is time to fall.

So long, so long, its been since my pen has danced across the page in a jumble of conscious and unconscious imagery that has been held inside for fear of release, the making visible of all that I am too frightened to otherwise acknowledge or share.

So here I sit, letting the water of my mind spring, rusty with the residue of the pipes in which it has sat stagnant for far too long, slowly start to flow again, consciously cautious not to break the leaky pipes with the full force of the pressure that has built. I wonder how many pages I must fill to see it run clear, wondering if even at its source it doesn't bubble up murky with the darkness of depths yet unexplored.

This then is an expedition of sorts into the places I fear to tread, where all I wish to avoid sits waiting, plotting its escape, seeking only acknowledgment of its own existence, of its place in the whole of my being, and so the world at large. The words are so small, yet contain an understanding of their own importance at levels I myself still do not. Thus I teach myself by distancing me from me.

Is this then the purpose of writing? So that the universe may know itself, know me, teach me about myself? If only I can humble myself enough to accept its knowledge and wisdom, what worlds could be accessed through these lines on paper, through these words and ideas that are of me, and are me, and are everything at once.

How does one even hope to capture the experience of so great an existence inside such limited thoughtforms? Only through layers of abstractions and metaphors until it becomes clear that existence is made of these limited thoughtforms and ideas viewed not from a singular source, but from all angles, from a constantly shifting perspective I myself provide.

But the truth, for now at least, is still murky, and necessarily so, for only that which is cloudy can be seen, while that which runs clear is all but imperceivable. And once truth becomes transparent all hope of holding it in words becomes as foolish as writing to find truth rather than joy.

As I run around in my head against the tumultuous rage inside my pea-sized brain, I slowly realize that the blank page before me isn’t going to be filled, and that I’m going to have to sink into my bed knowing this. Knowing that I can’t possibly write a single damn line that’s worth a penny, or even just a nice piece of candy. Overall it just sucks because I can’t do the one activity that I feel in control of.

It is quite painful to fall inside of this trap as you run through story after story, idea after idea. At times you’re trying to avoid being trapped, yet somehow you just end up getting there faster. The feeling is just murderous. Writer’s Block is just impossible to avoid, It’s like your house just collapsing in on you; One moment your happy and sitting on the couch, and the next your picking up the ruble from the instantaneous collapse.

Another reason I fall inside of this hellish hole, is the fact that I feel that certain writes are disingenuous, as if I just pulled some random words right from my behind and just let them settle in. I begin to concentrate on if people will even enjoy something that has little heart and doesn’t stick to what I personally like. I go deeper trying to find words to scribble down, but not for the sake of writing for enjoyment, but for some red number(s) that care little for me or my improvement. Attention seeking is never good, especially when writer’s block kicks in. It seems that when you reach the pit, the words seem to no longer matter, it’s like the great depression of words, you try looking for anything that can help stimulate you back to the point when you were at you highest. I try not to think that anything that I’ve written in the past is my peak performance, but rather just a series of signals telling the direction I should go in. It’s quite frightening to think that you’ll never make something better, that you’ve reached the end of the road, when in reality you just took a wrong turn. Writer’s Block truly sucks, and it’s only worth, to yourself, to just stop for a moment, let the words go for a second and breath in the air from the outside, find something else to consume you for just a while. Don’t try to find what to write next, just let the kite of words fly up for a little bit, and look around. What is it that is missing?

Well I can’t exactly help anyone to get out of this hellish hole, but I can tell of my experiences and hope that some portion of this text speaks out.

You leave, and they glide as consorts.

You hurt, and they flow as rivers moving tears

You fight, the fort of words protects.

In darkest fear, words reaffirm faith.

I molt a doubtful skin

and begin to see my worth.

I take the pen when I see injustice

I take the pen when I feel hopeless

I take the pen when I’m inspired

I write, and therefore I am.

They’re a comfort, these words.

I am glad they will never leave.

They promise to stick around,

through fair weather and foul

How I need them, I need my words.

Then you come back with a rakish smile

and just like that, I open all doors.

You’re kind this time, and I feel secure

We love again, and the world is right

I take the pen, it admonishes like a sword.

Abandon words to make more love.

I believe, and yet I am not.

Just for an afterglow soon to follow,

Silent blocks I callously allow.