That phrase always sounded too conceited to apply to me. I don’t consider myself a writer even though that’s how Dear Husband describes my profession, as if I made money of it or something. I cannot stop categorizing it, when he brings it up I usually answer to people’s questioning glances with a self conscious shrug or explain that I am a “frustrated writer” or a “wannabe writer” or “would like to publish in the future”.
I have yet to stand up and say “I am a writer”. What I always say is: “I want to be a writer”. I always feel such jealousy when watching the SAG Awards (Screen Actors Guild) and the actors stand there and say “I’m an Actor”. Not because I have wanted to be an actor, what I envy is their total confidence in their place in life, such confidence in their profession. They say it with such ease, with such relish, with such a lack of self-consciousness, because they know they are actors.
I wish I could do the same, shake someone’s hand and say I am a writer, not only for the privilege of having published work but also when moments like this hit me I can say, “Oh, sorry I am suffering from writer’s block” and then I can pick up some destroying addiction or bad habit, or start acting crazy like some tortured artist soul and start drinking absinth and doing opium.
I do not have the privilege of that. I cannot say I have writer’s block. I have wannabe writer’s block. That’s what I am suffering from. I don’t know if is the way this year started, with death and legal drama, or maybe is just adjusting to married life, full of you do the laundry, no you do its, or maybe is simply that I am blocked and I need to acknowledge it.
I have NEVER been blocked before; writing has always been like a painful release for me. It has always been an escape just like reading and shopping is. Some people clean, some others work out, I read, or write or shop, it is scary to find myself without one of my outlets. I have always been able to turn to it when I am feeling overwhelmed by emotions, when my head and chest are like a pressure cooker and putting stuff in paper releases all that contained steam. It is almost like peeing when you are so damn close to peeing your pants, and then you sit and finally let go and the relief is delicious and painful and so good it makes your eyes tear up a little and your skin break in goose bumps and you let go a heartfelt "aaaaahhhhhh"
Maybe that’s what is happening, my life is pretty normal at the moment. Work is going well, Dear Husband and I are getting along and happy as always, Zoey isn’t misbehaving and aside from a scary moment of Max taking a kitty bath on my glass of drinking water life has been pleasantly uneventful.
Maybe mild emotions are not enough for writing, maybe ecstasy, sheer happiness, utter misery, and overwhelming confusion is the only way to inspiration. Maybe sharp flavors are needed for a recipe of witty words on paper.
After doing some research (my answer to everything) I found most bloggers suffering from the same malady were feeling what I was feeling, a complete and total lack of something interesting to say, nothing to add, nothing to elaborate on. I guess we are in the same team; we are of the school of thought that unless you have something interesting to say you might as well just keep quiet.
At the moment I am happy, content, comfortable and relaxed. If it takes writer’s block to retain this feeling then I am willing to go through it for a while.