Writer’s block is the bane of an author’s life. It is frustrating, agonizing, and entirely self-induced.
Writer’s block, in the traditional sense, isn’t a block at all. It is many things: doubt, burn out, fear, laziness, the subconscious realization what you’re working on isn’t actually working.
I haven’t written in two weeks, aside from this blog. Am I blocked? Pssh, no. I know exactly what I want to write. I was just burned out. I went on vacation and thought perhaps I would write there, but I did not–not until the night before I left, and then it was only a little blurb about pirates. (I was at the beach. There may have been rum.)
And then I came home and proceeded to be extraordinarily lazy. Allow me to explain to you the variety of lazy I am talking about, here. I didn’t do my hair for work, I just pulled it into a pony-tail. I neglected the dishes frequently. I avoided chores. I didn’t even unpack my suitcase. My whole self was in denial about being home, and damnit, I wasn’t going to do anything associated with my normal routine unless I absolutely had to do it.
I can feel myself going into a bit of writing withdrawal, though. As in, the less I write the less likely I’m going to apply my butt to a chair and write. It’s a vicious cycle that I alone must break.
Inevitably, the moment I sit down to write, this will land on my keyboard:
And occasionally this:
And that, my friends, would be the only true writer’s block. Even that goes away with a good scratch and a gentle nudge.