All blocked up...

I’ve been having writer’s block lately and as someone who loves to write I find this very frustrating. While I don’t write loooooooooong in depth stories with snappy one-liners or non-fiction historical accounts of events that occurred long before yours truly graced this earth; I do find that writing is one of my many releases.

My writing is the most serious of all writings…it is to be seen as nothing more than that of pure brilliance. For my writing is the infinite boredom of my consciousness poured out in my journal…AKA my Blog. Now when I was younger I also had quite a love for writing poetry. I must say that I was actually pretty good at this somewhat of a lost art and still would write but for this issue I have mentioned above. Oh, and I am sure the fact that my life is actually in a very stable place without drama is also adding to my writers block.

It would seem that unless I am in a deep dark hole of mental anguish drowning my pathetic, over-exaggerated, mountains out of mole hills issues in beer or vodka (or whatever substance seems to be there at the time) and smoking cigarettes I simply have nothing to write about. Ever notice how smart the artsy types look while smoking cigarettes in a coffee shop? You know; the ones that waft that sweet, sweet STALE aroma of ash tray and patchouli as they float by your table in their unwashed hair, ankle length skirt, tank top and flip-flops...the hippy wannabe “non-conformists” that somehow seem to look just like all the other hippy wannabe “non-conformists” out there. Yep, I was one of those…minus the patchouli. I just knew that fragrant scent of loam (patchouli smells like dirt to me) mixed with my perfume of sweet tobacco would send every man, woman and child that brushed by me into a cosmic tailspin of envy.

Well, now that I no longer suffer the angst of (insert huge dramatic terrible event from your adolescents or college years here) you can imagine the burden of dissatisfaction this fruitless basket of creativity has left me. It would seem that while in my happy place my creativity goes out the window. The funny thing is, now when I try to go back and read some of the poetry I wrote while in college and shortly after it is so depressing I just end up closing the journal and putting it back in my closet. And while it will sometimes bring back the feelings I had while I was writing (even if it’s just for a fleeting moment, I still feel them) I have to laugh at what a complete drama queen I really was. The good thing is it made for some really fluid and creative writing, even if it does stay in the back of my closet.