Writer's Block

I think it’s time to accept that I might just have writer’s block.

I know, there’s a certain irony to writing about writer’s block. I’m trying to accept it, to embrace the idea that even for me, there are times when the words don’t want to flow. Times when the thoughts in my head don’t translate to words on a page. Maybe not everything is meant to be a blog.

It’s not the first time I’ve had writer’s block. In my nearly fifty years of living, there have been at least a dozen times when words have failed me.

Sometimes it’s lasted for weeks.

Other times it’s lasted for years.

There's both pain and relief in finding myself without a cast of characters competing for space in my head; without blogs winding their way in and out of my thoughts.

There's more space and less expectation.

There's more room for the outside world, when the inside world is not quite so demanding.

But, I also know that my writer’s block carries a message. It doesn’t exist by chance. Each time I’ve had it, the empty spaces where the words should be have been trying to get my attention.

Up until now, I have left my writer’s block unnamed. I’ve blamed my silent blog on my health and the chaos of summer. I’ve tried not to think about it, hoping that with a return to routine, the words will magically reform in my mind.

But, what I resist persists. There are very few things in life that can be successfully ignored away.

So, I’m here to make friends with my writer’s block. To accept it as fully as I can (is it acceptance if I’m still hoping that it will go away?).

Would it surprise you if I told you that just writing about my writer’s block has already opened up some of it’s secrets up to me? The sheer power of attention, of perspective always amazes me.

When I first sat down at this little juice bar in Wolseley, I would have told you that I had no idea why I hadn’t been able to write this summer.

Now, there’s a nagging voice in my mind telling me the only reason I didn’t know, is because up until now, I didn’t ask.

I have writer’s block because I’m not longer sure why I’m writing. 

In late spring, I entered three books that I’d written into a Canadian Children’s book contest.

One in each category, a picture book, a middle grade novel and a young adult novel. 

I felt least confident about my middle grade novel, Not Quite a Hero, which had been rejected by a few dozen agents in the last year. I contemplated putting in one of the other middle grade novels I’ve written in its place, but in the end just didn’t have the time and space to polish up anything else.

Not Quite a Hero made it to the longlist. The other two didn’t.

I’m excited that Not Quite a Hero made it through to the next round, but the whole process of putting these books out into this contest highlighted for me how little I put my work out into the world.

I’ve written five novels and I’m not even sure how many picture books, short stories, essays…

I write prolifically, but why?

Is it enough if I’m writing novels that will only ever be read by a handful of people? Do I need  a purpose for my books other than accumulating on my chromebook (or I guess on  a cloud in cyberspace…)

This blog is easy. I write it, put it on my website and you lovely people read it (and sometimes respond). It feels like a dialogue, like connection.

Getting a book published feels like climbing a mountain in the dark. It’s hard to keep going, it’s dangerous and disorientating, but if I can get to the top, then I get to watch the spectacular sunrise in the morning.

For today, I’ll publish these words and feel like it’s enough.

But, the sunrise will keep calling me and eventually, maybe, I’ll have to courage to answer.