Writer’s Block
I have always loved stories. All of my freshman year I would punctuate any awkward silences with “Will you tell me a story? Let me help you. Once upon a time…” and then make them finish. But I didn’t just like to hear stories, I loved to write them, to tell them, to share my creativity. Throughout middle school I would carry around gigantic binders full of loose-leaf paper overflowing with magical lands, beautiful princesses, wizards, pirates, or just normal girls, like me, who were desperately trying to get noticed.
In high school, I got more bold. Instead of keeping my worlds and characters to myself, I posted them on the internet. Hours and hours were spent writing on my family computer, editing carefully selected words, and choosing the perfect adjectives to describe magnificent situations. My stories became more daring as I got older. Hundreds of people would comment on my stories and pad my ego. When I was writing, I was somebody. It was the most wonderful feeling in the world!
Once I got to college the writing and story telling stopped. My life became hectic, I spent more time out with friends than inside waxing eloquent. Recently I’ve been trying to get my story-writing stride back. Not to post them on the internet and get a million comments and affirmation that I am wonderful, but because writing is soothing.
Last night I was telling my RA about these problems. Freshman year I would bounce my stories off of her (she has been one of my closest friends since we met at Band Camp), she was always amazed by my imagination and the things that would just pop into my mind. “You think you have writer’s block”
“No, that’s for actual writers! I just can never think of anything to say. What happened? I used to write about everything!”
“Just talk about that, see if it gets you started again.”
I did a lot of thinking about that. Should I really just write about my mild case of “writer’s block”? That just seems redundant. ;-)
