The Writer’s Block is the 1600 block of Harbourton Rocktown Rd. over here (longest street address ever and if I was blessed with rather easy last names, I’m now getting my due trying to read off my address to unsuspecting folks on the telephone).
Also, just in: There’s a lightning bolt icon in my Squarespace tools I’ve never noticed before and that’s the AI that can crank out a post without me needing to do a single thing or whatever. Perhaps you can tell by this post, I’ve chosen to forego its services. And we write on.
I’m in the editing bay. I’m on the writer’s block. I’m in the woodshed trying to make sense out of deconstructed lines and giving myself more time and more space and more investment in my craft. What are you investing in?
Hint: Whatever you’re giving your time to- that’s your investment. Whatever you’re spending your money on- investment. Whatever you’re eating, doing, thinking, sharing: investment, investment, investment. Don’t think of consumption- it’s a scarcity game. Sure, it’s a pile of money that dwindles and then fills back up over and over again, but really it’s a gas tank. Really it’s a currency exchange, really you’re taking your money and turning it into something better (hopefully) than money that returns to you somehow by way of avocado toast, a good cup of coffee, a cold plunge, a cheap replacement tshirt on holiday.
Our car got totalled. My wardrobe is trash. I look at old pictures of myself and see a pretty girl who never, not ever thought she was pretty and always thought she had at least 20 pounds to lose. Now I see photos of my old neglected self and think she didn’t have any weight to lose. She was hiding behind old clothes and bad hair making sure she wasn’t beautiful for all those years so as to not call attention to herself- because she was already too much and too loud and too everything. Huh. Life lost. She coulda been pretty for a minute there. She was as pretty as she could be in rags and hand me downs, I guess. My mom was always so disappointed in me. Sorry, Mom. My husband was always a little puzzled when I tried being pretty with makeup for dressing up, I think. No, more than that, I just don’t think he ever thought about it much. And I probably thought about it way too much…and in a bad, sad way like I’m always apt to do.
And as you pull your life (as I pull apart my life) for the umpteenth time, this time I’m doing it with songs too. Unravelling, laying out in pieces on the living room floor in Lydian mode trying to make sense verse and chorus and chord change. Talk about a brain break! Talk about writer’s block! How does one unlearn and relearn and reimagine? All I’m doing it writing out words separating out sound and syllable and asking myself why? Why did I write this? What’s the point? Is this a song or a writing exercise? How do I not give up and, instead, salvage this thing and turn it into more of what it should be?
Which essentially is the question I’m always asking myself, “How do I salvage this thing called life and turn it into more of what it should be?”
Now that I know I did a bad job for all those years, what’s left for me at 46 other than disappearing? I guess rework these songs and give more time to the craft, ya know? I guess let go of all those missed opportunities and invitations and be here now? Be her now. Abide the editing bay a little longer, Grasshopper.
So here I am. On the page. Not giving it over to the AI just yet. Believing that I can be better at this job, better at my life, that I can dust off the dirt and try again as many times as it takes. And that’s an investment in presence, process, participation. In forgiveness, in letting go, in tears. It’s a totaled car, it’s discount duds, it’s a sunny day, it’s not giving up.
High five.