Naturally enough I haven't been very productive on the writing front of late. Short stories have languished and novel ideas have grown cold on the back burner. I had great fun yesterday making up graphs comparing my acceptance rate this year to last year. Valpot commented that it was good to have a way to pass the time that didn't involve writing. I agreed heartily.
Hang on a minute, isn't there something wrong here?
Last week as I sat in front of a blank word document, the cursor blinking sulkily, I felt bunged up creatively. 'If only I could get mental Draino to unclog my brain,' I thought 'I'd be writing with gusto again.'
Then it hit me. Duh! I've got writer's block. Thought I had it before, but never realised it could feel like a physical presence in my psyche. I really feel as if a part of my mind - that creative centre lodged somewhere between the Hypothalamus and the Pituitary - has a U-Bend all clogged up with nasty grey sludge and long black hairs and nothing can get through that wall of soap scum. The ideas still pop up, but without creative flow they got caught and well up in my imagination, making a messing puddle all over my subconscious without ever getting to my conscious mind, let alone my typing fingers.
Maybe it is because I am not passionate enough about any of the story ideas I have at the moment, I try to rationalise.
What I need is a mental plunger, a subconscious chemical so powerful it can cleanse my ego and id - or a hatchet. Whichever comes to hand first.