Writer's Block

I know a lot of writers. Or, at least, people who think they are writers. Myself included.

My boyfriend is a writer.

It’s mesmerizing to watch an artist at work. They can be lost and found on the same day. The process isn’t really a process at all, rather, an unpredictable journey that includes lots of swearing, stealing ideas (which I recently l earned is actually a flattering and loving gesture), and other activities which shall remain unnamed, until there’s nothing left to do but put pen to page.

So, what is it about writing, a truly archaic art form, that has suddenly become so taboo?

Maybe it’s social media, attacks on the first amendment, generational pains...blah, blah, blah.

None of that noise matters. What does matter is the day you feel like your words don’t matter is the same day you find yourself, someone else, or just a fuckery of feelings.

As I write this I want to throw it away. But isn’t that the point? Shouldn’t you feel a freakishly crave-able disgust toward your own work? I say, yes. Embrace  that addiction. It’s better than most.

Perhaps I’m imitating the gnarl of Bukowski or envying the flowing quill of Shakespeare, but here’s what I’m driving at: this is for everyone. The punks, princesses, and poets alike. The worst regret one can have is not saying it. So why not be loud?

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