Resurrecting the Dream

I have had writer's block for the past five years. Not, "Oh, my story won't flow," block. More like, "Takes me an hour to write a 140-character text message," block.

Here's how I fought it.

First, I changed meds, started eating healthier, and got more exercise. This was important because I went from sleeping 12-16 hours a day to 6-9. It honestly astounds me how much more time I have in a day now, and how much more energy. I assure you, if you are likewise brought that low, then you are probably taking too much of the wrong medication or not enough of the right one.

If you are medicated or are in need of medication, I highly recommend talking to your doctor about GeneSight. It's a simple cheek-swab test that analyzes your DNA to match psych medications that work with your unique biochemistry. It's new, and not perfect, but it doubles your chance of finding effective meds ... and is a damn sight better than blindly spending years on the "trial and error" approach. Even insurance companies recognize the value in buying one test over thousands of various expensive pills. And of course wiser eating and more activity are practically free in the era of Youtube and myfitnesspal.

So that is step one. Get your mental and physical health passably regulated. Shoot, even just barely regulated - at least to the point where you don't sleep 2/3rds of your life away, and you collect slightly less moss than a three-toed sloth.

Step two? Ah, step two. The step that birthed this blog. After all, needing less sleep just gave me time. The ability to actually wake up did not dictate what I would do with my days. I still thought my writing mojo was gone, that the spark had finally died and it was time to find a new passion. I felt listless and lost without it, but I told myself that's just to be expected when a dream dies. Habit and sheer pigheadedness kept me opening blank .doc files and staring at them for an hour or so until, defeated, I wandered off. As a last resort, I decided to try pen and paper, to see if the soothing motion of ink spilling onto page would somehow bring back the magic. As if the first method I had learned would somehow stop it from being the last.

Of course it didn't. I still sat, frozen, paralyzed. And I realized that my oldest nemesis, my greatest weakness, had found me again.

I was afraid. Terrified. Intimidated by that vast expanse of white that challenged me to fill it, to create something good out of nothing at all. And in that moment I knew I had to take control of it, to disrupt it, or fear would rob me of something precious yet again.

I took the pristine page and tore it, folded it, tore it again. It was no longer perfect and pure - like myself, like my life, it had been broken and torn into pieces.

It is much less daunting to face four fourths of a page than one whole one. A ragged fragment of paper is a note, a scrap, a scribble. A place for thoughts to spill free of judgment. Scrap paper doesn't have to be good. It doesn't have to be life-changing or insightful or even grammatically correct. It's been rescued from the trash and is delighted merely to be used. It is a friendly rival rather than a Goliath.

But practicing a thousand times with your rival trains you and strengthens you to conquer your enemy. Slamming a pickaxe into a cavern wall a thousand times nets you a lot of gravel and a pile of pebbles and even some gems ... all the ammunition you could need to sling down a slew of giants.

So there I sat, having filled a scrap full of scribble, and no idea what to do with it. Being a fan of cargo pants and work jackets and lumpy silhouettes, I let reflex take over. I folded that little piece of paper up and put it in my pocket. It was surprisingly liberating.

See, I love to read, can't help it, and can't help that when I write, if my eyes catch an earlier line of text, I'll start reading without conscious decision. From there, I have always followed one of two avenues. The first is I'll start thinking that it's all terrible, and then I start editing, and then my story is dead on page one. The second is that I read it and decide (in my delusional way) that it's all wonderful and I've done a fine job and it's clearly time to reward myself with pie. And then my story is still dead on page one.

But with scrap, there's the current paragraph and no other - enough to maintain a thought, but not enough to ensnare. Just enough to get that piece covered in scribble and safely folded in your pocket so you can move on to the next. And the next, and the next, and then (Lord willing) you're back in the flow and the scraps are piling up in your pocket and soon you find yourself with a veritable haystack of story.

Admittedly, a haystack is an unwieldy thing. But if you bale it up regularly it's not too hard to handle. Sort however you like - type your scraps into your favorite software with copious searchable keywords; organize them into a neatly labelled recipe folio; hell, bundle them up with colorful rubber bands if that's all you've got. You do you. Just keep writing. Keep going. Keep conquering fear and doubt and pride, and you will accomplish something amazing. You will bring your dream back from death to fully live again. And so will you.