Some people say that writer’s block doesn’t exist. I don’t know if it does or not, but I don’t know what to call what I am going through.
I guess, in technical terms, it isn’t a block, since I have a multitude of ideas, it’s just that I am having a hard time putting them into coherent sentences. Yes, I do know this has never stopped me before. The so-called experts instruct you to “write through it,” which is what I did on my previous post, “Parkland,” and it is easy to see it’s not my best work. Actually, I have no idea what my “best work” is. I kind of like the three part “Her,” and I have no reason why. Maybe the film just inspired something in me.
Maybe I need more inspiration in my life. I wish I knew where to find it. When I need to clear my mind I usually ride my bike, but it’s far too frigid for that. Sometimes a change of scenery will do the trick, and it sort of did the other day. The problem is that all these “great” ideas came rushing into my head while I was trying to go to sleep. I should have written them all down, because I didn’t get much sleep that night anyway.
Music can be a source of inspiration. It can also be a source of depression as well, and I’m not just talking about the Smiths. All sorts of songs can bring pleasure or pain. Even the most upbeat pop song can conjure up painful memories or moments of melancholy.
I may have found the root of the problem right there. One of the things I wanted to write about is music, so I immersed myself in the songs of the era and all these things I had forgotten about, or more likely–surpressed–came back to haunt me. Now I need to come up with a way to get back to where I was before I started this journey, which isn’t all that much better than where I am now.