Tag: writer’s block

Hello, again.

When I first started this blog several years ago, I was so young and naive that I needed my brother to help set it up. He was already working in the tech field so he knew all about this thing called blogging that was taking over the internet, with so much promise to change the world with powerful words and images. And I guess blogs did that for a long time… until louder forms of content showed up and we gradually lost interest in reading long-form prose, instead craving more and more short and snappy and entertaining pieces.

But I digress.

When my brother helped me set up this blog, he told me he was going to buy a domain—my name—and pay for it. I pushed back. Would it be worth the money? What if I don’t publish any writing and the domain just sat there useless?

He told me to use that doubt as fuel. To write and publish something every day, “even when you have exams,” I remember him saying, making sure our dad was out of earshot. That way, I could feed my passion for writing and also make the spend worth it.

So I did. I took that advice to heart and wrote every day. For nearly a decade, I made sure that I wrote something, anything, and hit publish. I wrote my exams in the morning and on my blog in the evening. Once I started working, I went to office at 7am so I could write before work.

If I had to travel for weeks, I’d spend hours binge writing so I’d have enough posts to schedule for the days I’d be away. I wrote everywhere—in airports and train stations, in my head on my morning runs or while doing the dishes. I wrote ferociously and veraciously (no, Claude, that’s not a typo). I wrote poetry, short stories, random musings, travelogues, book reviews, and so many things. I even taught myself how to write myself out of a writing block.

Even when I moved countries, I kept writing. Even when I enrolled in a full-time degree while working full-time I managed to keep my one-haiku-a-day habit alive.

And then a few months ago, after far too many months working 12-14 hours a day, my mind finally showed me how exhausted I was. When I wasn’t working, all I wanted to do was to while away. Writing for the sake of writing started to feel a bit too heavy.

So I skipped writing for a day and felt deeply guilty about it. It didn’t feel right to let go, even temporarily, of the only thing my entire personality and life was centred around. Since I was 12, all I’ve ever wanted was to be in a constant state of writing.

Then I skipped another day. And another. And another. And I wasn’t feeling as guilty anymore. I just told myself I was writing on LinkedIn thrice a week and that still counted as writing.

It didn’t. Because as much as I enjoy the stories on LinkedIn, the cognitive load required to filter out the bullshit, to read between the lines, to not judge a post by its pouting lips but by its intellect takes a lot out of me.

And so I found myself tonight, as most nights these days, scrolling through LinkedIn and trying to conjure up the energy to write something that’s professional, meaningful, and enjoyable. And I somehow found myself here, instead.

Making peace with silence

Writer’s block is just a symptom of feeling like you have nothing to say, combined with the rather weird idea that you should feel the need to say something. Why? If you have something to say, then say it. If not, enjoy the silence while it lasts. The noise will return soon enough.

Hugh McLeod, Ignore Everybody: and 39 Other Keys to Creativity

I’m away on holiday for a couple of weeks, and until I get back with more haiku and photographs, I’m sharing some of my favourite quotes. Hope you enjoy!

If you want more, check these out:

Travel haiku | Musings about life | Copywriting adventures

I admit

For the last few weeks, I’ve struggled with my reading and writing.

I’d borrow an interesting-sounding book, riled up and motivated after scanning three of a five-line blurb, smiling at positive words that jump out at me, only to set the book down a few pages in, never to pick up again.

Like most of us would, I too blamed the book. It was dull and monotonous. The pacing was off, the print was too small, the page too tattered, or the story unrealistic—

Excessive excuses rained in my brain, as I told myself lie after lie for why I couldn’t get through a book.

As for writing an article, a poem, or a short story—stuff I used to do daily—I got nowhere with them. My mind drew blanks every time I determined to roll up my sleeves and create something worth sharing with my writers’ group. And for every meeting, I’d turn up empty-minded, to sit there and listen to wonderfully strung words, tap-dancing in my head even hours afterward.

It wasn’t the block—reader’s or writer’s.

I was just lazy.

I spent so much of my time volunteering, having fun, chatting with people, laughing, baking banana bread and cookies and muffins for no reason, and whiling away all day doing anything but reading or writing.

In other words, I was avoiding doing what I had to do. Reading and writing, my greatest passions, had become more strenuous than before. It was hard to sit down and focus my mind on one thing. As a result, I began using volunteering (which I enjoy just as much) as an escape mechanism.

The reason: I’m starting to understand the difficulties in writing meaningful work. When I’m in the groove, writing is easy for me. It feels so natural that I get a lot done without feeling tired or worked up. However, I’ve also come to see that it’s not always the case.

Effective word chains don’t always flow from the mind and ebb through the fingers on to the screen. In reality, writing is a draining, time-consuming task. You need to be active and present in the situation. Reading is the same. It demands more energy than thinking about baking or looking up random, irrelevant recipes.

We all go through this phase. It’s not that we’re no longer dedicated or involved, but it’s just that sometimes, even our most innate hobbies and interests can overwhelm us. To run away—or at least trying to—is common. But we should, at some point, admit it to ourselves.

I love writing and reading. But sometimes I don’t want to read or write. I’d want to watch a crappy TV show instead. That doesn’t mean I no longer love writing or reading. It just means there’s temporarily a screw loose in my head. Accepting that allows me to fix it and come back, strong as before.

The wait

I don’t believe in co-incidences. But I also don’t run away from them. Unable to write much today, I jumped from one tab to another on my browser trying to locate an idea that’d spark and open up my well of thoughts. It almost never works—I often read random things for hours before giving up on finding inspiration. I end up rambling or publishing a quick haiku.

Today, however, as I read through last week’s newsletter from the ACT writers centre (while this week’s newsletter lay open on the next tab), I stopped at this quote.

Waiting for inspiration to write is like standing at the airport waiting for a train - Leigh Michaels

I’ve heard it, or something like it, a hundred times before. It’s the standard advice any writer offers a wannabe. I’ve said it plenty of times too, to myself and to others. 

Waiting for a lightening bolt of inspiration to hit you is like taking the bus south and hoping it goes north. I know because I’ve done them both. Waiting is an excuse not to write. It’s a way to get around the larger fear that encapsulates your being, the uncertain possibility of an outcome you’re uncomfortable or unfamiliar with. And I think that’s how writer’s block comes about. It’s a reason to avoid seating yourself on that chair and getting work done. That’s what happened to me.

This afternoon, I arrived at my local co-op ready to write. It’s a great co-working space—they sell bulk foods, snacks, and have free artisan (sourdough!) bread. The best part? It’s almost empty after lunch.

And so I propped my laptop on an empty desk, wandered around the shop, bought some onion and sesame seeds, got coffee, nibbled on some bread, read through notes from a panel discussion I attended two days ago, and got distracted at least ten times before the newsletter came as a slap in the face.

The only reason I kept avoiding the blank screen is because I wasn’t sure what to write. And yet, the moment I started, I knew what I’d write. That’s the biggest hurdle most people never cross—they linger at the beginning for too long, and give up just before they discover that a world’s waiting to unravel underneath their fingers.

If you’re interested: Read the full newsletter.

What should poetry be?

Art, creativity, rhyme, rhythm, rule breaking?

Or perhaps… starving artists, writing blocks, free verse, and prose poetry. 

When I think of poetry, I think of moments.

Instances and distances, captured in crisp clean words, sharp as a sword, slicing through inhibitions. Swerving around discomfort, sliding into its oil-smeared language sheath. 

Poetry resounds.

Echoes through chambers, giving voice to gassed creatures, tongueless beings, tortured souls. 

Poetry nurtures.

Comforts the pained, strained, and the maimed. Speaks to innermost feelings, gently, as lathering lotion on sun-scorched skins.

Poetry heals.

Remembers the forgotten, acknowledges slaps and punches that broke the bones.  Respects with solemnity—a bandaid for moving on.

Poetry lives.

Smiles at similes, accidental puns, and misheard metaphors. Thrives in you and me, in sharing of friendship even in darkest of times.

Poetry loves.

Gives a piece of one to another, faithful, unfailing. Opens doors and arms to worlds only believers can imagine.

Poetry… is.

Over the weekend, I attended a poetry festival called Poetry on the Move. One of the panel discussions was what poetry is and what it should be. This is my response, inspired by many interesting thoughts. Some more of my musings from the festival: What’s the value of poetry? and Labels.