Is Writer’s Block a Real Thing?
written by Gayatri Medhi, edited by Rebecca Rijsdijk
"A non-writing writer is a monster courting insanity," said Franz Kafka. Sometimes, I can't help but wonder if I am becoming that monster. Is it just me, or is there something about the summer air that makes it feel like my hands are too heavy to carry words? I sit by the old sofa and sketch obscure things, suffering from what some call "writer's block."
Writer's block is a temporary halt in a writer's ability to write, and it can be caused by a lack of motivation or exhaustion. However, for me, it's different. My mind is full of images, plot lines, phrases, and little dramatic dialogues, but I can't seem to get them onto the page. The words I do manage to write don't feel like my own, and I end up reading Murakami to try and find my way back to my own voice.
It's strange, because when I'm not writing, I'm just an ordinary person living an ordinary life. It's almost embarrassing, and it makes me feel defeated. Maybe it's because writing is such a big part of my identity that when I can't do it, I feel like I'm not worthy of my own words.
Some researchers claim that writer's block is just a convenient excuse for writers who feel like they can't write any more. "Why can't you write?" "I'm suffering from writer's block." It's an easy answer, but is it true?
The thing that really gets to me is that no one seems to notice when I stop writing. It's like I'm in my own little bubble, and the world outside doesn't care. It makes me feel like nothing changes when a writer stops writing.
I used to think that written words were vague and lame, but spoken words were magical and spellbinding. That was until I started speaking and realized that my language collapses into stammers. Collapse is a big word; I use it only with certain things. Speaking is one of them. I crumble between speeches; it makes me look exactly the opposite of what I write. I can write beautifully, but when I speak, I crumble. It's like my words are at odds with each other.
I started writing in middle school, and I found something in the words that I hadn't found before. Words are just combinations of letters that take on meaning because someone put it there, but they don't really exist. Without them, though, we would just be stares and hums. The moment I wrote down my thoughts and feelings, I felt alive for the first time.
I write for many reasons. Most writers start because they want to capture the beauty of the world around them, or because they want to explore their own thoughts and emotions. For me, it's about finding meaning in the things I see. Sometimes I get so caught up in trying to understand the world that I forget to wonder what my own place in it is.
Writing has always been my way of making sense of the world, and when I can't write, it's like I've lost a part of myself. I try to remind myself that it's okay to take a break, and that I don't have to have all the answers right away. But it's hard, because I feel like I'm letting myself down. Writing is the only thing that I have ever known since I started knotting my emotions together.
In the end, I think we are all just paper-like obscenities, trying to make our way in the world. We might not have all the answers, but that doesn't mean we can't keep searching for them. So, is writer's block a real thing? I'm not sure, but I do know that it's a struggle that I, and many other writers, face.
Some researchers argue that writer's block is just a convenient excuse for writers who feel like they can't write anymore. It may be easier to say "I'm suffering from writer's block" rather than confront the underlying issues that may be causing difficulty in writing. Additionally, it can be disheartening when no one seems to notice or care when a writer stops writing. It can feel like we are in our own bubble, isolated and disconnected from the outside world. In moments like these, it can be helpful to try to shift focus and look at inanimate objects, pretending to understand their stillness.
I used to think that written words were vague and lame, but spoken words were magical and spellbinding. However, when I speak, I struggle with an ugly and rotten language that doesn't seem to come naturally to me. My language collapses into stammers and I crumble under the pressure of speaking. It's frustrating because I am able to write so eloquently, but when I speak, it seems like the opposite of what I can write.
If you ask me about my day, I will give you the answer I think you want to hear, not necessarily the answer I truly feel. But if you ask me how my day was through writing, I will share with you every detail and emotion I experienced. Writing has been a part of my life since middle school, and it has helped me find a part of myself in the words I put down on the page.
Words are combinations of letters that take on meaning when we assign it to them, but they don't actually exist in and of themselves. Without words, we would just be making stares and hums at each other. The moment I wrote down my thoughts and feelings in my journal, I felt alive for the first time. I often search for meaning in everything I see, sometimes forgetting to consider my own place in the world.
I began writing for many reasons, one of which is the common desire for validation. It can be difficult to speak about painful experiences, like overdosing, with a therapist. Writing allows me to explore my thoughts and feelings and offer reasons for my actions, which can feel like a form of validation and a way to make sense of my experiences.
The second reason for my writing is somewhat unclear and elusive. I remember being in middle school and having a teacher approach me and say that I was ruining a boy's life. This caused me to feel an unknown ache which was foreign to my body, but now that I am older, I forgot how it used to feel. I do, however, still have a sense of the hurt it caused. Another event that made me want to write till the clocks start ringing in my ears was when a friend called me a slut. I don't remember the reason why, but I think I have erased that part of the memory because it felt trivial and demeaning.
I write every time I am overwhelmed by a wave of sadness. I believe I may have let go of my childlike senses too early, or maybe they were taken from me. I should have held onto my younger self and provided the comfort and warmth she needed, but instead, I pushed her away like an empty ink bottle. At 14, I didn't understand why my bare shoulders caused such a stir at school. It's absurd how quickly I abandoned my inner child and became this entity that I am not even fully aware of. When I write, I don't know if there is any depth to my words. I feel shallow and emotionless.
When I am not writing, I tend to break and scatter away from myself, becoming mere crystals near springs. They may look pretty and tenderly beautiful, but they are scattered and lost, sensibly naive in the belief that everyone will misunderstand them as something magical.
I know why I am struggling to write. The answer might seem a bit dry and humorous. In the past few years, I have moulded myself into someone I barely recognize, forgetting what my life felt like before. I've forgotten how mundane things can feel without being understood. The old lady at the tailor shop cries herself to sleep at night because she is tired, and there's nothing particularly profound about it. The cobbler sitting under the stolen big umbrella tries to stare into the sun because he likes the idea of burning. It's absurd, but absurdity is valid and doesn't need to be understood.
I feel uplifted each time summer comes because I have been deeply hurt, and it's hard to write about it as a writer. I want to be honest and not gloss over the pain. I don't know when I will start writing again, but I think I will approach it differently. My mind needs new things to write about – perhaps something less sad or unusual. I want to write slowly, timidly, and tenderly.
I want to take the time, but not too much time, to understand depths that I am not even aware of. I don't think there is anything wrong with not writing. I cannot force myself into writing routines if I don't even know what I want to write about. Writer's block is a form of self-indulgence. It creates passive breaks between a writer's frenzied mind and brings one back to the feeling of mundanity. So, don't rush towards deadlines. Sit down in your favourite spot and try to blend into the earthy air. For once, stop searching for metaphors.
GAYATRI MEDHI, also known as Rakhi, is a student and writer from Assam, India who pours her life into words and books. An avid reader and compulsive writer, Rakhi is driven to connect with others through her writing, which is both personal and open to interpretation. Her poems, published in the new winter anthology "I Knew A Girl Who Liked To Drink Plain Indigo Ink," invite readers to join her on a journey of self-discovery and introspection. Don't miss the opportunity to experience Rakhi's beautifully crafted and evocative writing. Get your copy of "I Knew A Girl Who Liked To Drink Plain Indigo Ink" today!