In Not So Funny
I know there is a sentence up there somewhere...

I know there is a sentence up there somewhere…

 

I haven’t written for a week.  Is it because the ideas, the creativity, just aren’t there?  It would be nice if I could squeeze ideas out of my head like tooth paste.  I just can’t think of anything and when I do it’s at the most inopportune time. Like in the middle of the night, when I have insomnia.

 

I lie there, staring at the ceiling and then the creativity hits. In bits and pieces.  If I look hard enough, I might actually see sentence fragments on the ceiling, in a sea of darkness.  I gotta get up and write something down, even if it’s only one thing at a time.  If only I can make it out there without waking my husband, Howard. Turn on the lights?  Not going to happen.  Breaking my toes on the corner of the bed frame?  Making that loud phalangeal crunch?  Stifling a bone-chilling  yell?  Yes, yes, yes.   But that’s not writing.  Yet.

 

Sometimes I get an inspiration for which I don’t have words.  I want to write something that I can’t articulate about.  It’s probably deep inside the non-verbal side of my brain, the right side according to neurological experts. Right side?  What a misnomer.   Seems to me that it can’t be right if I can’t write about it.   This must be the kiss of death for a writer. If I can’t describe it, how can it possibly even be there?  Does the idea or inspiration really even exist?  Like a one-handed cap in the woods, who can sense it?   I can feel my left brain’s frustration.  It’s as if it wants to reach  into my right brain for a good choke hold on what I should be saying.

 

 

Maybe it’s my writing environment.  It should be conducive to writing, right?  For me that would be orderly, organized, and aesthetic.  Maybe I need a good view of the ocean, or a garden with lots of flowers and trees.  Not!  I write at our dining room table.  In better times, I cranked out two books on that table. Back then, it wasn’t so cluttered.

A writer's clutter has no mind.

A writer’s clutter has no mind.

Now I could spend a whole week clearing off its clutter.  I guess I would have a good excuse for not writing – for that one week anyway.

 

I could consult the supernatural for inspiration.  Maybe I should go to a séance.  But Halloween is over and besides, I might run into my deceased mother who would tell me to go get a real job.  Nothing like  family disapproval  to squelch inspiration.  I know.  I’ll find an astrology website for writers.  I can hardly wait.  But what if It tells me I’m too indecisive to decide on a topic…that I’m just  an insecure Libran who  needs help because they can’t decide what to write about.  But that’s not me, I mean, how can you be indecisive about your writing if you are not writing?

 

Creativity comes in so many forms.  What to do?  I know.  I think  I’ll get my laptop out and just type whatever comes out of my mind.  If  it has syntax and makes sense, maybe I can call it writing.