I sat in the Pencil Pit, staring at the blank page. The early morning light filtered in through the barn window, illuminating specks of dust floating gently in the air. It was quiet except for the scratching of chickens outside.
Writer’s block had firmly planted itself between me and the page again. I knew I needed to write my regular Morning Mental Meanderings blog post, but no words came. I reread the quote by Charles Bukowski that I had scribbled down last night – “writing about a writer’s block is better than not writing at all.”
With a sigh, I picked up my favorite #2 pencil and began:
I gazed at the empty page, willing words to flow but finding none. Bukowski’s advice rattled around in my head…maybe writing about the block itself would help dislodge it. My mind felt stuffed with cotton, mute and tangled. I longed for the relief that came with a free flowing stretch of typing on my old typewriter, when the words tumble out almost faster than my arthritic fingers can catch them.
But for now, there was only the oppressive blankness glaring back at me. The vast whiteness seemed to mock me. You call yourself a writer? After decades as a small town lawyer, you thought retirement would make you an author overnight? What a joke. I shook my graying head and shifted in the creaky wooden chair. The morning sunlight felt harsh now instead of comforting. The chickens’ cackling sounded more smug by the minute.
With a deep breath, I lowered my eyes to the hateful blank page again. Bukowski was right – just acknowledging the block was better than ignoring it and giving up completely. The words would come again, eventually. I just had to sit with the discomfort and not lose hope.
Dipping my #2 pencil once more, I began drafting a description of the fickle muse’s abandonment. Might as well make use of the empty time by writing ABOUT not writing…
The Pencil Driven Life 