You’re walking along, headed to work, excited for the possibilities of the day. Hyped up from your third cup of coffee — you would’ve stopped at two, but your significant other’s constant nagging of how you never put the toilet seat down forced your hand — there’s an unnatural pep in your step. Backpack slung over your shoulder, you have a great feeling today is your day. Your day to write.
The clouds have dissipated, revealing beautiful azure sky and a small flock of birds traversing across the blue expanse. You stare transfixed at the scene as you sit at the table, laptop unfurled, word processor open and blank. It takes a few seconds for you to snap out of the trance, shaking yourself before returning to the screen.
Suddenly, you feel a tug at your toes. Your chair wobbles, making you grip at the edge of the table. Looking down with a confused expression on your face, you realize with horror what is happening.
You begin to struggle, which you’ve been told time and again is the absolute wrong thing to do. But you’re panicking, so you do you, bro. Quickly, you’ve sunk to your calves, which you aren’t too concerned about because you never had calves to be proud of anyways. The chair is securely in the grip of the pit.
You look around desperately, searching for an escape, someone to help. No one seems to notice your pleading eyes, your dire situation. They aren’t aware that you’re about to be swallowed whole by the monster beneath you. In fact, most of them have never had to deal with what you’re dealing with now.
In truth, this kind of snuck up on you. For the past three weeks, everything has been near-perfect: A thousand words one day, almost two the next, a handful of blog posts, a couple chapters crushed…you’ve been a machine. At the time, you felt unstoppable, all-powerful.
Now…well, you’re in a fucking sinkhole.
You stop fussing, knowing it’s no use. The only way to fight this enemy is to think your way out. The trick is to not force the thought. You have to remain calm, breathe, and gain inspiration from somewhere outside of yourself. Find your muse, or be eaten alive.
It isn’t the end of the world, of course; the sinkhole only takes you from your table in the shop and moves you along to the next day beneath the sinkhole. Not a big deal, but to you it is. The sinkhole is trying to steal your day away from you. Days are important to you. It’s where you get your work done.
Take a day away, and you lose that time to create.
Okay, okay, stop freaking out. Think of a topic to write about…um…puppies, those always tug at readers’ heartstrings…no, it’s too easy, too lame…what about the political arena…ugh, you don’t want to burden yourself with debate and defending yourself…hey, you can always write about writer’s block, the situation you’re in right this second…
Hmm…that’s not a bad idea.
Yeah. You’ll write about writer’s block. Of course! That’s what the pros do, right? It’s a real thing, an actual affliction. You could string words together, come up with a list of strategies to get yourself out of the sinkhole, explain how you’re feeling right now. Shit, you could post on social media your current predicament, ask for support from your 37 followers. #PrayForMe
You feel the sinkhole relent a little, giving you some room to burst from the trap. But you remain patient. You know, from experience, the sinkhole is gaming you, giving you an out. Rookies would attempt to leap from the trap, only to be caught again, this time even harder and deeper.
But you’re a veteran. You can spot a trap within a trap when it shows itself. So, you slowly type a couple sentences on the blank page, nothing too special, more of a stream-of-consciousness narrative than anything. You’re waiting for the sinkhole to attack again.
The caffeine is starting to wear off. Danger zone impending.
Finally, the sinkhole lurches at you at sentence three. You were ready. The chair gets immediately taken, disappearing from underneath you, hurling to the next day, the next opportunity. You maintain your stance, dipping your head and continuing to put words on the page.
One at a time. One word, then another, then another.
Keep writing. Don’t stop. If you stop, the sinkhole will roar with triumph and slurp you through its maw. So you throw letters and punctuation at the screen, not hitting the backspace to the best of your ability. You cannot retreat. You combine thoughts, each one pushing you back through the black hole.
You reach a hundred words, two hundred, three, an entire page. The sinkhole is losing its hold on you. The people surrounding you are taking note of the fury with-which you fly your fingers across the keyboard. They stare in awe of your perseverance. They’ve never felt how you feel right now, striving to stay afloat, not giving in to writer’s block, but they can appreciate your efforts. They wish they had your crass, your bravery to battle the sinkhole rather than give in and wait for the next day.
Finally, with a flourish you find your sentence. Your flow. The words are like fire, spreading with reckless abandon, burning any unease in its path. The sinkhole surrenders your unimpressive calves, your feet, your toes. You step out of the fray, victorious over the sinkhole.
As you nonchalantly find another chair, you glance at where the sinkhole was. It’s gone. No evidence to suggest a sinkhole was ever there.
You sigh deeply, and allow yourself to smile. Somehow, you survived the writer’s block sinkhole. You have about a thousand words on the screen. You feel comfortable enough to hit publish, no matter how messy it is.
You escaped the writer’s block sinkhole. Yet you remain fearful of the day the sinkhole sneaks up on you again. Because it’s inevitable.
However, I have a feeling you’ll be ready.
Write On.
“A writer is somebody for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people.”
— Thomas Mann —
