The Dreaded Block

I've been wondering why or how I can possibly write something so beautiful one day and the next find myself with absolutely nothing to say. Sometimes it's almost as if I have given up on it all, and I realize that something is standing in the way. I don't really want to give it all up, not really. So what's the problem?

The door has shut on my last few chapters. I'm brave enough to admit this: I have writer's block, and I hate those two words together. Admitting this and typing it, making the realism of it come to life, is causing a burning deep inside my stomach. It's almost like the pain of a broken heart, a death of a loved one, salt in the coffee instead of sugar.

But I've had a great deal of pain in my now 24 years of life. I know how bad it hurts to admit something is wrong, to face it instead of shoving it someplace deep inside. Actually, that's what I've been doing. There is a fireproof, keypad entry box somewhere inside me that I've managed to shove everything into and now it's full. Opening this box is going to destroy me for a few days, especially when the Narcolepsy gets wind, but it must happen. This is now unavoidable.

So my brain has concluded, it's time to get out the Therapy Monsters notebook "we" created. No matter how difficult this will be, it has to happen. "We" wanted to follow Tracy's advice a couple months ago, really! "We" knew it would hurt so bad, so "we" only created it, and didn't follow her advice.

It's time... and I'm distracted by the Lion King in my head when they raise the next king over the crowd of animals... a happier memory from my childhood.

Snippets

I question every detail, making extractions, turning them over in my hands. Then I wonder why... Why can't I, too?

She speaks to me without even a whisper, never saying a word. "You can, dear, you can."

And when I look up to the summer sun through the shade of the weeping willow, I can't help but cry too.

"Everything you ever wish for will come true. Simply ask the stars," she says.

Above the Moon

I'd ride to the top of the mountain at the end of the road by sailboat if it were possible. I'd climb the vines that crawled up my building if they'd hold me. I'd cry more tears if my tear ducts still worked properly.


Things are feeling a bit off. Numb.

I took a walk to clear my head yesterday so that I could work hard on my book when I returned. Something had been blocking my vision inside that tornado wearing goggles. When I arrived at home after knowing peaceful fresh polluted air, I realized that I'd been afraid of the monsters, the cobwebs and the snakes.

So I climbed up the spider string, my hands slipping, and I dangled above the moon. We talked and sang and ate cheese and drank the stars wine. And I felt better after that.

Emotion is everything.

Bees Hate My Writing

I am honestly trying my hardest to finish this novel. Of course, this brilliant idea popped in my head... "Oh, Crystal! Go outside! Go outside to the front porch where you can write to the music of the birds and feel the wind's hand breeze through your hair!"

However, I'm outside, and the music of the birds is distracting, the breeze of the wind is distracting (yet wonderful), and bees have decided I smell deliciously sweet. I've tried to talk to the bees. I thought maybe there is a bit o' bug whisperer inside me, after all, my bunny understands me. So I said, "Hey bees, I'm not a flower. You won't get any pollen from these pale legs!"

Sadly, bees have tiny ears. They don't listen very well.

Bet the elderly neighbors are enjoying watching me hop around the porch constantly swinging and shouting.