Writers block?


I guess all writers go through it. It seems to have hit me hard. That feeling that no one reads anything you write anyway so why bother writing.  I have turned my attention to crocheting and jewelry making and selling them on my Website. www.craftedbytw.com. (yes shameless plug).  Have actually been giving that most of my attention.  The kind of attention I should give to my writing. But, oh well. at least it calms me.

I still have stories in me. Trust me, there are a million worlds in me. Stories that probably should be written so I don’t drive me crazy. There are snippets and first lines of fantastic stories.

“The noise of the engines calmed him.   The sound reminded Stan of the ancient Mongolian throat singing he had watched on the old Earth vids. The ones labeled Nat Geo were his favorites.”

I have full characters in me. They have names and lives. They have ideas and thoughts. Others may think I am crazy but I am not. I am a writer. These people live within me and I am constantly adding new ones. People I have met online, in the mall, at the local supermarket, all become  a part of a character.

“Natalie tossed her hair to the side, the sun’s  rays catching on the white strands and making them glow. Her eyes flashed an orange color. Yep, she was angry. Les stepped back prepared to run.”

As a child I used to play with little plastic animals. Even though I had a ton of siblings to play with I wanted to play alone, mostly because the others would take over my story line.   Each animal had a personality and a role in my internal story. I could play for hours by myself. My greatest joy was to find a “watering hole”,  little puddles left over from the rains. Lots of things could happen at those puddles.

“The  tiny deer approached the water cautiously. She knew that the  hungry predators would be waiting for an unwary animal. She would not be their dinner today.   The deer had no way of knowing that the trapped laid for her was not of predators but of the strange smelling humans.  She slowly stepped forward and jumped when the door closed behind her.”

I shouldn’t blame the readers or lack of readers for my not writing. It is my own fault really.  I do not know when it became important for me to know who reads. I had a few friends who always gave me good feedback and encouraged me to write. Those friends are no longer. I was feeling sad and hurt. Unwanted. Dumb. A hack. I am not. I write gooder you know. There are many who appreciate what I write.

“I gave up. There was no way over the wall. Like the old  children’s song, I couldn’t go over it, under it around it or through it.  I had two choices. Go back or sit here and wait for something to happen. I wasn’t going to go back. If I sat there I would die.  What was I to do? “

There are worlds within me. Can you imagine if I told a shrink about the people and worlds that are within me.  Lord knows what diagnosis I would have.  Even as a kid I would make up stories about people. I would see something or someone and, bam the imagination would kick in, and that thing or person had a whole story about them. My mom would tell me to knock it off when I tried to tell her my stories.  Some of my siblings called me a liar because many times I forgot to tell the It was my imagination making a story to share.  As I got older I wouldn’t share.

“She sat alone in her craft room/office/playroom.  She was trying to decide if sharing her stories was worth it.  No response was worse than bad responses but neither was wanted.  Both of them made her feel less than.  Perhaps it was time to get back on the horse that threw her off. Perhaps time to throw caution to the wind. Perhaps someone.”