In search of story



I have been in a place of real horror. It’s somewhere inside me. It stops me from writing. Even emailing has become too much of a challenge.

It isn’t any want of words. It’s that there are too many words. Too many images. Too many feelings, questions. I cannot latch on to a one of them. It is impossible to think a thought from beginning to middle, let alone from beginning to end. Let alone write it! There’s a dam there. And the water keeps rising and swirling, gathering into itself ever more words. And images. And thoughts. But it can’t go anywhere.




This isn’t a first, and therefore I think it will pass, but meanwhile I am miserable. Writing is a tool for survival, and so when I can’t write I wonder if I will crumple.

My wise writing mates taught me that writing paralysis can be a sign of evasion. What am I evading? What am I trying not to write about? Do I know? Do I know that I know? How deep will this infested water be by the time I find that one twig to yank and bring down the dam?

My writing mates are, I think, pointing the way to that twig. Shirah, with her newly-finished and compelling word portrait, and Tamara, with this morning’s blog post about writing. Both speaking, as writers, to life, the alpha dam.

In the writing of these few words, I’ve had to get up and pace many times. Something in me is trying to stop this measly trickle.