Writer's block is something I used to laugh at. Now it's something I stub my toe on. I still write, to be sure, but I don't like anything that I'm writing these days. I don't know if it's because I am busy with my real job as a reporter, because I hate my job as a reporter, because my good ideas are all locked away in hibernation, or because I simply am out of my groove. Whichever way it's going down, my writing/editing time has turned largely into a sighing/swearing time.
And whatever the reason, it's frustrating. The days of yanking a piece of paper out of a typewriter with loud ZZZZZZIIIIPPP! might be gone for me, but the act of highlighting a giant chunk of text on my laptop screen has the same, dizzying affect.
One positive of this whole thing is that my reading has shot through the roof. Since Jan. 1, I've read 14 books, and am halfway through No. 15. That has me cruising (unintentionally) toward roughly 60 books this year. I try to read between 40 and 50 each year on purpose, and I'm blowing that pace right out of the water.
These two things are no coincidence, methinks. Subconsciously, I feel like I'm trying to dig up whatever I can out of these numerous books, furiously flipping through pages to find the switch for that light bulb over my head.
I'm so tired of the frustration, that I've decided to jounce the limb a little bit to see if this slump can get knocked to the ground. And I'll do whatever it takes.
I'll change my routine to write during different times of the day. I'll write without looking at the screen for an hour and then check out what I've got when I'm done. I'll write groggy from just waking up in the morning. I'll write groggy with sleep late at night. I'll write drunk. No matter what happens, though, I won't quit.