This happens to me now and then. Instead of writers block I get readers block. There are a million beach reading lists out there and I blink at them and don’t know where to start. I read the NY Times Book Review and wonder, who are all these people writing? I look through books on my bookshelf and feel overwhelmed by them. Which ones did I read? Which one should I pick?
When I’m on a roll there’s no stopping me. I am in love with reading and will go through stacks of books. But when I sputter and stall out and find myself circling the bookstore in a daze, well it’s bad.
Maybe I’m trying to tell myself something. Doesn’t our behavior often proceed our cognition? Maybe I’m trying to say, self, you should be writing – you should get your name on one of these books, in one of these book stores, on one of these lists. That would certainly cause paralysis.
You have to work hard at anything you want. You have to pay attention. You have to make mistakes and face rejection and not care about things you might normally care about.
I had to give up alcohol because of my RA meds. I miss it once in awhile when I’m out for dinner or cooking at home, but not enough to really bother me. I had to give up coffee because it gave me horrible heartburn. That was harder, but I drink tea. I manage. I smell good coffee and feel longing and regret and I salivate unconditionally. But I don’t go back. I can manage. I have to give up cheese and ice cream and most dairy because my RA meds sent my cholesterol into orbit. But I can’t do it. I’m eating even more than usual. Out of spite? In fear it will be gone? To give myself a heart attack?
To write I have to give up time and get organized. I have to stop watching stupid TV and looking up recipes and reading Real Simple magazines. I have to feel crappy and stupid facing the blank page day after day. I have to feel worthy of finishing something good, something people will want to read. I have to open up this calcified area inside where I store all the ugly, tender, raw, dangerous memories and feelings.
I guess it’s time to cut the crap and get over whatever it is I have to get over. Do what the doctor says. Put my ass in the chair and write. Stop whining. Start listening. Get reading.
Growing up is hard.
And I’ll believe in grace and choice
And I know perhaps my heart is farce,
But I’ll be born without a mask
Mumford & Sons