Bloggers Block

I am constipated. Consume, consume, consume, it is all I do. And the more that I consume, the greater becomes the wrenching pain in my stomach, but still nothing is produced. How fondly I remember the occasional days where I simply point my eyeballs up and to the right for a second to draw upon a magical inspiration which moves my fingers across the keyboard for me, while I just sit and look at the result with surprised pleasure.

I believe my constipation is referred to as writer's block. I'm not sure I could call myself a writer with a straight face, so we'll just say blogger's block, and without the italics. I hate bloody bloggers block.

Yes, there is currently no inspiration manipulating my fingers as I write this. Instead it is a slow process. I toil for minutes over every word. I adjust the grammar and logical structure of sentences until they become meaningless to me, and I relentlessly question what I write, never afraid to delete half of an essay with quick confidence of its unworth or to swap around paragraphs in the remainder as though I'm playing a cups and balls magic trick.

I suppose this is the writing I should be most proud of, since I've consciously created it and worked at it, rather than pulling it nonchalantly from the air. The opposite seems to be true though. Pieces I've written in this sluggish fashion I know too well to appreciate. I see new flaws with every pass, both in the writing itself, and in my arrogant attitude for even attempting to write it in the first place; while the writing produced in a state of flow – by my hands, but not my mind – in this I can find no flaw. Of course, upon revision by others less biased than me, flaws are aplenty, but the consciously produced mess is still judged even lower.

Although inspired work is done quicker and better, would I really wish for everything that I produce to be done in this state of mildly unconscious creativity?

In some sense, the reason I write is to toil, not to produce a lot of high quality work. It is fun to try arrange words on paper in the same way it is fun to try and throw balls into a basket. As far as hobbies go, writing just happens to have the fun side effect of putting other people in my shoes, and giving myself an artifact to look back on. But the underlying enjoyment comes from the activity itself. I have no qualms with fully consciously experiencing something that I enjoy, so indeed I would not wish for eternal inspiration.

When inspiration strikes, that's great, and the resulting flow state is undeniably fun in a different way. However, when the muses hide, I won't follow suit. Writing is fun too when it is slow and meticulous, and perhaps this makes it a more personal and involved activity, although less productive. Additionally, if I only ever write when I have the overwhelming inspiration to, then I would not be getting in quite enough practice with the craft as I would like. I need to be warmed up and ready for when the inspiration actually does come.

And so, I relieve at least a small amount of my painful constipation with a long awaited piece of nonsensical shit for my wonderful readers.