Linking up with Kate Motaung today over at Five Minute Friday.
This post is about writer’s block. So therefore, it’s gonna be bad. And short. And wonky. But, you know. I already threw an ABBA pic at you, so you knew this was going to be odd. But maybe it will stick in your head all day. Like that Fernando song. Hearing the drums and rebel uprisings and Sweden and all that.
Don’t judge me. I have a book. I know what I’m doing.
And I am also so terribly humble.
Ok, so lately – this is what writing is like:
Dana sits down. Dana turns on Project Runway. Also, she checks fb. Then twitter. Then her two email accounts. Then, she sits and decides to pet the dog, which reminds her to get a snack. For her, not the dog. Then, she sees the floor in the kitchen. This sends her into the death spiral of despair and self loathing. The floor. It’s like a scene out of Dexter without the blood and gore, but you know, sorta similar.
People, I TOLD you this would be about writer’s block. I didn’t promise any wonderful analogies.
I have been trying to write an article. It’s due tomorrow. I have been working on it for a week. It is the most horrible thing written ever.
I sit down to it, and literally, my brain just kind of pools in the bottom of my head and I start to drool a little. The article is a tangled ball of yarn after a thousand cats have had their way with it. The ball. Not the article. But that too.
SEE? BLOCKAGE. MY BRAIN IS CONSTIPATED.
And I sit. And then I get up and go to Starbucks. I listen to the baristas chatter about hip things. I order a book on amazon about writing. I text a friend about my writing. I send an email to my dad about life. Which is writing.
BUT I AM NOT WRITING.
I am the GOP and the DEM debates of writing. I talk around and under and besides a topic but I just end up spitting on my microphone and tweeting about it. There is no DONE of anything.
Yes, I know. It’s a slippery slope, to start in on politics for my analogies. Please don’t get mad, my fellow Republicans and Democrats. It’s a weak analogy at best. It’s like Trump’s hair. Lots of poof. Not a lot of hair.
OH MY GOODNESS. Now I’m snarking at Trump. I am piling metaphors ON metaphors and my dad will never read my posts again.
Sigh. I am stuck.
Noise is all over the place. I distract and deflect and fill up my soul with ignorant armies clashing by night. They make noise, those armies. They have a lot to clatter and clang about but I can’t discern anything because they are so LOUD. My life has become just one big glittery ABBA costume.
The article I’m trying to write? It’s about Romans 15:5.
I don’t want to write about it because it’s a tough verse for me.
It is (at first glance) a really not so scary verse, but for me, it is. It is. It’s something God is trying to tell me or teach me, and I don’t want to hear it right now.
So, I turn up the volume and put on Souper Trouper, and dance away. (There is NOTHING wrong with getting down to some ABBA, but not now. Not today. I just know it.)
God’s homework for me today: Pray. Pray for silence to soothe, not scare me. And breathe. And say, “Ok, I’m listening. It’s really quiet in here. I have to listen now, don’t I?”
If you haven’t caught on, being quiet, being STILL is really, really hard for me. My brain, and my heart, likes to squirm out of the classroom chair at any given opportunity.
I’ll keep you posted, chiquititas.