Writers Block.

Writing. Writing about writing. I feel belittled by myself. Deprecated. I’m finding it too arduous to summon the words I once would with so much ease. Powerful language flowing out from within me. Words that bled from me. Words I bled into. Red-brown smears across the paper.

I lost the words, somewhere once upon a time. Alongside prams and potty training, ABC songs hurt, and Old McDonald wouldn’t have helped me. A most magical moment in time, by anybody’s standards, left me bereft of my release. Desperate, paramount release. Betrayed by life, by life and biology. Words, stolen from me on that magic night.

I don’t need anyone to read what I’ve written. But I NEED to be able to write. Imperative to my soul, I beg for the words to return to me. For as long as I can remember, words healed me, writing them stroked my heart. And now they have gone.

Haunted by formidable dreams, a sign of creativity seeping up through any cracks in my spirit. There are so many many cracks. Biomorphic shapes of shadow creatures creep up from within them, taunting me, prickling my spine. They smile, disgusting smiles.

Maybe my heart isn’t broken enough anymore? The bleeding, my blood the ink, has dried. Is broken love the only inspiration I can use? Has broken love dried my emotional river? Desperate, grieving, tears come easily over the haughty remains, spiteful remains that dance and jeer where words once were. Ridiculing my failure.

On a dark dark night, on a dark dark street…

I have been without a mobile phone now, for what seems like an eternity but is probably just a couple of weeks and I have actually done very well, even if I do say so myself! As I’m sure most people can imagine already, when my phone first broke I panicked! How would I let anyone know anything, how would I check Twitter, how would I receive the important emails I was surely suddenly going to start getting?! However, once I resigned myself to the fact that my phone had passed on, I have to say, the grieving process was pretty short. The freedom is glorious! I never conceived just how much I’m annoyed by phone calls and texts all day! I mean, I did used to leave my phone at home frequently because of low battery, and always enjoyed the break – yet I never realised I would be this happy to be free of my old little electronic buddy.

Apart from all of that, I received my laptop (A million thank you’s to Sarah for getting this for me – I can’t thank you enough!), so I haven’t been totally Internet starved. I have been working on the plot outline for the book I’m writing, and researching bits and pieces connected to it. I expected to find all of that enjoyable, however I’m suffering from “The White Dragon”, a phrase I picked up from Vivien Reis in her YouTube video “How To Permanently Defeat Writers Block“, which describes writers block. I watched quite a few of Vivien’s video’s and found them inspirational and helpful, I feel ready to begin again. One of my problems is that I used to write every day, even if it was rubbish, I wrote. This helped me because as I was writing all the time, I wrote all of the crap that I hated, but I also wrote all of the things that I really wanted to get out onto paper… or, er, the screen.

The most crazy thing that happened to me this week was that I found a dead body. Okay, so he turned out not to be dead, but up until the point where I found that he was a sleeping drunk person, I really did believe I’d found a dead body. I knew it in my heart. And I was terrified. I’m actually pretty ashamed of how I reacted at first, if I’m being honest. I’d like to say that I rushed to the mans side, heroically ready to administer (my limited knowledge of) CPR with intrepid poise. This did not happen. This really did not happen.

I was leaving the house, so that I could go to the cash-point for my mother. It was particularly cold that night, so I had my huge fluffy animal print coat on. The collar on the coat is quite big, and it kind of obscured my vision as I closed the front door and noticed something in the street to my right… Next to a car, was what looked like a pile of bags… I thought that was strange and continued on to the cash point. As I was walking home, I could see down the street to the “pile of bags” next to the car, and as I got nearer I realised with more and more certainty that it was, in fact, a person. By the time I got to the front door I knew for sure it was a person. The worst part is, that from where I was stood, it looked like a man on the floor, with a bicycle tire sort of around his neck and head. The second I knew it was a person, I froze.

I tried to see if the man was breathing, but couldn’t tell. I stepped closer, my hand on my phone in my pocket… then realised I had no phone. At that point, I was sure he was dead and there was a gory sight awaiting me should I step any closer. Instead of going to help him, I went back inside and got my mums phone, telling her quickly, “I need your phone… I think there’s a dead body outside.” I heard her questioning me, “WHAT??” as I walked calmly back outside. I tried to walk up to him a few times, each time coming back to the front door, thinking about what I should have been doing. My mum had made her way to the front door, and I jumped out of my skin when I turned and saw her the first time, I was so on edge. Eventually, it must have taken me about 5 minutes to make the 3-second walk, to where he was lying… It was like something out of a horror film. A cold, silent, night… Woman on her own, in a dark street and next to a dark, spooky, ancient grave yard! I slowly approached his body, calling out “Hello? Are you okay?” My heart thumping loudly in my ears, holding my breath, the suspense building… I was about a foot away from where he lay, when the loudest snort I have ever heard, jumped out of his body. Snoring. He was fast asleep on the pavement, snoring.

Relieved, I gently tried to wake him up, having to become considerably less gentle to finally actually wake him. He was mumbling and seemed surprised to see me. I took his arm and gently pulled, helping him up off the ground, the sickly smell of alcohol emanating from him as he staggered to his feet. We joked a little about how he had been having such a peaceful sleep, and it was a shame to wake him. I picked up his phone and cigarettes from the floor, handed them back to him, and walked with him a little down the street… He stopped for a conversation with my mum before eventually making his way off into the night.

I was just so ashamed of myself for not going to help him the second I saw him, though. At first I was convinced that there would be a gory scene and I was overwhelmed with the fear of the sight I might be haunted with afterwards. How selfish is that? Even once I realised he wasn’t physically hurt, I was worried he might attack me once awake, so that also held me back! I feel bad I didn’t rush to help him, once I realised he was a person instead of a pile of bags. What if he had been physically hurt? I would have been useless! Hopefully if something like this happens again, I’ll react a little faster!

Anyway, I’m tired, I’m coming down with a head cold, and I need to sleep. Hopefully tomorrow I will get some writing done. I need to lock the first chapter down, really. Maybe my dreams will give me some inspiration! Goodnight!