Writer’s
Block is a famous
phenomenon even those who never write fiction have heard about. It’s depicted
in movies about writers and plenty of writing memories. Biographies and
fictional writing characters speak of it. The irony that they write about not
being able to write doesn’t escape me.
I haven’t had writer’s block, and my
only explanation is just that I say NO to it. I’ve had days when in the midst
of first drafting a novel I am seized with fear that I just can’t do it. At
least not now. Maybe not ever.
But then, I make myself sit and do it. I
write, and that’s that.
I tend to agree with another writer who concluded
that the so-called writer’s block, if prolonged, isn’t a specific writing
malady. It is clinical depression as manifested in people who write. For
others, clinical depression robs the very zest for living. Everything feels
flat and pointless. In a writer, this becomes a sense they have nothing to say
and can’t write.
I’ve been blessed not to have had
clinical depression to date.
But I have had Reader’s Block. Those are periods when I’m unable to focus on
reading. I don’t mean reading articles or short blog posts or letters. I mean
reading good literature. I pick up a book I normally would relish reading, and find
that I. Just. Can’t.
I’ve observed that, for me, these
periods are not ones of the doldrums, but rather periods when exciting things (either
good or stressful) are taking place. Something happens to my ability to dig in
and focus on more demanding reading.
This whole pandemic thing-a-ma-jig has
been such a period. I managed to read one good novel, but it actually took the
same sort of “just do it” I enlist for days when writing threatens to challenge.
I also managed to write, because that “block” isn’t allowed by me. But reading
continues to be a challenge.
I hope this reading block lifts, and
soon. If you’ve ever had it and got through, let me know how to kick it to the
curb.
