Blocked

I can't write. Writer's block, it's called. But right now it feels worse, like there's nothing in my head. No ideas, no words. Just angry frustration at myself for not being able to voice my creativity. An inability to create rather than consume, to give something meaningful to the world. I mean, I'm writing this right now, but only because I can't seem to write anything else. If you can believe it, I actually thought this blog would help get my creativity flowing. Maybe it is helping, but maybe I just use it to moan and groan about my life, which really does nothing for my creative writing skills.

Here's where most writers and creatives would lay out their plans to overcome their block and find inspiration again. In Julie and Julia, the movie which honestly inspired this blog more than anything, the titular Julie's plan was to cook through Julia Childe's legendary cookbook and write a blog about it (go watch it if you haven't yet, dear reader). Other writers do short story competitions or blurb writing. Some partake in challenges (Inktober, anyone?) to push them. I should probably do something like that, if this blog doesn't count, but I'm honestly too lazy for that. People used to say I was hard-working. I'm ashamed to say that I'm not. I'm the laziest person I've ever met, and I don't know if I stopped being hard-working one day or if I never was and just did a really good job of making it seem like I worked hard. I like to try and I value hard work, but when it comes down to it, my body is always aching and my mind is weak and of course, technology, whether it be Reels or videogames (including my recently deceased Destiny) or movies, offers a lazy, time-sucking, self-soothing solution. I keep saying, “One day I'll be better" or have a routine or get around to everything I need to do, but when will that day come?

So instead I'm sitting here at 2 am writing this little post, when I know I should be reading and absorbing the writing of all the great writers I will never be. I've been reading Victory City by Salman Rushdie recently (at a snail's pace), and it has certainly been a source of inspiration. But I haven't been reading tonight. Instead, for the past hour, I've been staring at my screen hoping I can find something to write, something to kickstart my mind into something I can be proud of.

My goal has always been to write the book that I want to read. When people ask what books I like, I don't really know how to respond. My favorite book is Cloud Cuckoo Land by Idaho native Anthony Doerr, and that's the closest thing I can get to describing the books I want to read. Fiction that makes you contemplate the existential details of history and art and the things that make us human? I'm sure there's a proper way to describe it that doesn't make me sound like a lunatic, but I'm too lazy to find it. Anyways, obviously any writer wants to write the type of books that they like to read. So when people ask me what books I want to write, I also don't have much of a response. Instead, I slyly say, “I want to write the book I want to read.” It's kind of a nonsensical, obvious answer (dare I say tautologically redundant? Haha), but I think it points to a desperation of mine, and probably many others, to search for a piece of art that is perfect for them. A movie, a song, a book, a painting; something that puts our unique experience into a little package that we can reconcile with. A memory of our life and emotions, rejoicing in the embrace of that little part of your chest that tells you you're missing something. An answer to everything you've ever felt, and a map to guide your existence. Obviously, no one will ever find that perfect piece of art. We can only create it.

But how can I write something that speaks to my life, and answers the questions about that life, if I don't have those answers? They wouldn't really be questions if I knew the answer. If I wrote a self-insert character (however well-disguised) who encountered the questions of my life and found an answer, that character would no longer be meaningfully analogous to me. Maybe I could make them happy or satisfied or something, but that would mean nothing for me in the real world. So that is one of my fundamental questions: how can I write something that is perfect for me, when I do not know what perfection is?

Here's what I know I want to write about right now: falling in love. Something happy, to combat my current malaise about love. Something soft and gentle and radiating with the love I am yearning to fall into. I thought I made peace with being alone when I started to disappear from everyone's lives recently, but I guess that also made me want to find reassurance that I will not be closed off for the rest of my life, so I want to write something fluttery and lovely and obviously perfect, with none of the qualms that real love can come with. And of course, the story also has to have something to do with space. Maybe an angel, in love with a man, like City of Angels? Which, by the way, is an excellent movie. Or maybe two kids losing their way in the vast spaceways, but finding themselves and each other in the process? A high priestess and a scribe? Too many ideas, and not enough time. Too many premises and endings, with no clue how to get from one to the other.

Right now it feels like I don't have anything in my life: no best friend, no future, few friends (my own fault, maybe), no school. This has a few implications. One is that I should have as much time as I want to write whatever I want. The other is that it's one of the last things I have going for me. My two crackpot dreams, to write a book and to start a restaurant, are the last things I can cling to in hopes that one of them could make me feel fulfilled and existentially happy. So wish me luck, I guess. Or don't, and hope I find self-actualization from myself instead of endlessly chasing other things.

I hope this whole thing makes sense. Like I said, 3 am. Anyways, I'm going on a road trip next week (I guess I lied. I do have one big thing to look forward to) and I'm very excited. Hopefully I'll have loads to write about, whether it's revelations about myself or just about the beauty of southern Idaho.