Writer's Block

I try to write in the first person, but the pronouns keep catching up with me. They know it's a lie—that I don’t have a story to tell, a life to write. Not yet. So from me's and we's I soon fall into he’s and she’s, and wander around in my head trying to find what I have to say. But these other people I never meet, the he's and she's I follow around, they have trouble speaking too. The scenes and the moments come out in great detail, but they never bother to have a plot hold them all together. Lines occasionally tumble out in clumpy paragraphs, a page or two in a year or two. But the stories all still wait around--disembodied words in a notepaper morgue.

On days when I'm feeling wistful and long to touch something beautiful, I seek out a moment of creative truth, and it unfailingly inspires me. I read books and hear lyrics that make me want to write, to try to tell some story that lurks around me as I fall asleep.

But for now I just dream and nightmare of words on pages, hoping and fearing I find them again when I wake up.