My friend Michael Procopio–a San Francisco based gentleman blogger who fights for the honor of words and glorifies the well-timed delivery of a witty retort–wrote a moving essay on the topic of writer’s block this past week. Michael’s post described how his writing had come to a halt once a desire to create something perfect had settled in. Writer’s block–the kind that demands nothing less than greatness– can not be relieved without the delivery of an impossible ransom. The desire for praise or success only elevates the price. Michael’s essay bared the hard truth; a desire to create something perfect can kill the ability to create.
Oh, man. Who hasn’t felt that way? Who hasn’t longed for a pat on the back? Who hasn’t worked hard on a creative project, only to feel a heightened sense of obligation for the next deed to be even greater than the last? Who hasn’t heard those dark whispers that say the work you’re done is no good. Or worse, that nobody out there really cares?
I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been frozen by the idea that the last thing I was proud of may be the last good thing I write. And then, just when I’ve talked my self out of the corner, the voice of self-doubt returns to trump the whole thing with the hateful notion that the last thing I put down on paper wasn’t all that great after all. Why bother, it tells me.
Boy, we creative types really can be rotten to ourselves.
Luckily, I’m in something of a good place today, so I can muster something close to a snicker to the dark thoughts that come in and tell me I might as well stop writing. Where do these thoughts come from? Who allows such mean talk to go on in this head of mine? Thanks to Michael’s essay, I’m happy to know I’m not the only writer who has suffered through a block.