My writer’s block-busting exercise becomes a block in itself when I want to write standard “hey this is what’s in my head” entries. So here goes with one of those, long overdue.

For the past few weeks, no small amount of my spare brain-cycles have been spent focusing on the question of what I do next with my life, career-wise. After receiving two graduate school application rejections — what a fantastic economic period for this process — I have questioned whether this is the right thing for me to focus on while my writing lies stagnant. Not that I would ever ditch my day job for the promise of a future as a writer; I am far too attached to my current standard of living, and all of my major financial decisions impact not only me, but my partner, and not only now, but our future.

Since I stumbled into library science thirteen years ago, it became a natural outgrowth of my strongest traits, but I never intended for this to be Who I Am. There is some amount of sadness in my heart when I hear myself referred to as a librarian and not a writer. The truth of it is that I spent the past thirteen years focusing on my day job and not my writing.

And now when I want to change all that, to focus on my writing in the bits of spare time I can cobble together, I don’t know how to do it.

I have taken workshops; I share stories and critiques with an amazing writing group; I read books on the craft of writing and the art of getting published.

After a long talk with FunkyPlaid the other night, I realized something overwhelming and horrible: I have lost hope. It isn’t about rejection, either; I have lost the power to visualize myself succeeding as a writer. Because of this, I do not see myself as a writer anymore, so I do not behave in writerly ways. Stories go unfinished; poems go unedited. I wake up with ideas I never bother to write down.

Sometimes I spend hours staring at blank notebooks in stores, pretending that if I found the right notebook, I would see myself as a writer again. I fully realize how ridiculous the prospect is, and I do it anyway.

It is crazy to me that I am entertaining this bout of self-doubt while the rest of my life is soaring above my every expectation. It is crazy to me that I feel this despair while I am surrounded by creativity of every kind, musicians and artists and parents and writers and glass-workers and conspiracy theorists and designers and all of them, every one of them, seeing themselves for what they are.

All I see of myself is what I have not yet done.

I know how this reads to the cynical eye: a plea for sympathy, a fish for compliments. It is a confession, and only I can absolve myself.

I apologize for the lack of posts this week. On Monday I had a king-sized headache, and on Tuesday I took photographs instead.

Back to our regularly-scheduled busting of writer’s block! This prose poem is courtesy of my spam folder.

“Too busy to go back to school?” she huffed, dangling the highball glass between thumb and ring-finger. Ice cubes clacked. “I should have seen it coming.” And with that I remembered why I hated her, that slick brow over flat eyes. She went to wakes but never funerals, something about the smell of turned earth, of coffins. I was a replica watch on her wrist, telling time while never knowing how late it was. “You can trick the nature and make a monster of your timid animal.” I fantasized about the heft of the paperweight on her desk. She’ll never be disappointed again.

[Want to help me bust through my writer's block this month? Read about this exercise!]

“Hello? O, hi, Cheryl. No, I’m not busy, just working on the kids’ bedroom at the moment. You know, the same old thing, cat walked through and wrecked the whole left edge. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with what I’m given, Cheryl. I just don’t know. You know Stan, always promising we’ll move out to the back yard, but when he says it half his eyes aren’t even looking at me, you know what I mean? I’m beginning to think we’re stranded here in this miserable place with no windows and an overachieving cat. Cheryl? Cheryl, let me call you back. I think the Person is home, so I need to pick up the kids from the faucet and hide behind the TV. I’ll call you later, honey. Okay, bye-bye.”

“An afternoon in the life of a spider” was the prompt I used. Thanks, Rebecca.

[Want to help me bust through my writer's block this month? Read about this exercise!]

Something I am learning from this exercise: the prompts often launch me in a completely different direction. I wonder what that’s about.

I am reading a book called “How to Be an Adult in Relationships: The Five Keys to Mindful Loving” by David Richo, and this passage struck me today:

Childhood forces influence present choices, for the past is on a continuum with the present. Early business that is still unfinished does not have to be a sign of immaturity; rather, it can signal continuity. Recurrence of childhood themes in adult relationships gives our life depth in that we are not superficially passing over life events but inhabiting them fully as they evolve. Our past becomes a problem only when it leads to a compulsion to repeat our losses or smuggles unconscious determinants into our decisions. Our work, then, is not to abolish our connection to the past but to take it into account without being at its mercy. The question is how much the past interferes with our chances at healthy relating and living in accord with our deepest needs, values, and wishes.

Where to begin … yeesh. First of all, I can’t write entries like this with Jonathan Coulton playing, no matter how much I like his music. Now that it’s off: in past relationships, I was often told that my past was a problem, something to “get over” — or, rather, something I couldn’t get over, and thus was a deal-breaker — so much so that I attempted to disconnect myself from it, to forget it in order to overcome it. As a result, my memory of my childhood is spotty at best. When I discover an artifact from it, I am often moved to tears not because I reminisce but because I cannot reminisce. Whole years of my younger life are gone now; in an effort to be “normal” I have created twice as much work for myself.

While cleaning my desk today, I found this photograph of my family. I think I am three years old in this photo, but I truly have no recollection of it or of being three, of having two parents in the same place. We all have separate homes now. And today I realized that I am still trying to make sense of that.

[Want to help me bust through my writer's block this month? Read about this exercise!]

Despite all the wonderful prompts, this poem did not originate from one; it has been rolling around in my head all day, and must be let out.

garnish
me with
more than
green

side to side
start with
white plate
blue eyes

flutter
lashes
long and
cautious

where do
I find you
fresh and
warm

crisp or
wilted
fingers grasp
for past

shredded
hearts
dressed with
time

[Less than 100 words, but that's where it wanted to end. Want to help me bust through my writer's block this month? Read about this exercise!]

This one from abecedarius surprised me, simply: “beards.”

I woke up with one clear thought: pain. My face hurt; my lips were being pulled back from my teeth in a jack o’ lantern sneer. Opening one eye, I reached up to my lips and felt tiny hands.

“Hey, asshole,” someone very far away said. “Where’s the fridge in this place?”

My feet smacked bare tile of the bathroom floor before I realized that I was out of bed. The clock radio flipped on; agitated yet polished voices collided into one another. I didn’t want to look in the mirror.

The head and torso of a small angry man protruded from my beard. He seemed to be flipping my reflection off with fingers too small to see.

The radio announcer said a word that sounded like “pandemic”.

“Beer? Hello? Do you even talk? Did I get a mute one? Well, that’s just great.” The creature put his hands on his hips and huffed.

I had thrown away my razor years ago.

[Want to help me bust through my writer's block this month? Read about this exercise!]

Today’s blockbuster prompt is from Davmoo: “Please write 100 words on …your favorite childhood memory.”

The wood stove in our living room was surrounded by pieces of slate. Old radiators kept the corners of the other rooms warm, but the wood stove, the old general, boomed forth waves of heat well into winter nights. Cats curled up to it as close as they dared. My parents each tended the fire in such an unassuming way while working on their other projects, another grownup ability that I found quietly glamorous. During nights spent around the stove, I would write and draw on the slate pieces with chalk while the three of us listened to albums of classical music. To this day, whenever I hear Satie’s Gymnopédies, I feel safe.

[Want to help me bust through my writer's block this month? Read about this exercise!]

And I don’t mean the Transformers sequel kind.

You and I will bust through my writer’s block this July. We will do this together! All you need to do is give me a prompt, and I will use it to write at least 100 words each day of July.

Send your prompts via comments here or via Twitter.

If you are similarly blocked and want to play along, you are cordially invited to do so.

Let’s have some fun!