To Scale The Block of Doom

Yeah, I know, enough about mosquitoes already. I’m fed up of them too.

I was minding my own business yesterday when all of a sudden, without any provocation, I sat up and thought to myself, “Time for my next post,”

And that’s when it hit me, like a slap to the face. Or mosquito.

I had no idea what in the world was I going to write about next. And as I sat there, realizing that I was having no idea what in the world to write about next, something else hit me.

I had just realized that I was having writer’s block. An actual, almost tangible, writer’s block. Like a literal wall in my mind that’s blocking all thoughts from moving on to a better place.

Well, to be honest, it was probably more like a wall with this tiny gap where thoughts are being charged a tariff to get through. This is the modern age, after all, and capitalism is contagious.

But still, the flow had slowed down to a point where my thoughts didn’t seem to be making any sense at all. I wondered whether I should do some other research topic. Spiders maybe?

Rejected that within a few seconds.

I considered writing about the weather. That flame snuffed out even faster.

My mind tried one last time, a desperate grab at the ledge as I was hurtling downwards. Maybe I could do a short story?

My imaginary fingers caught hold of that imaginary ledge and I started to use my imagination to pull myself upwards.

I pictured a haunted house. Inhabited by a ghost of a man who had been killed in a fire in that house five years ago. He had probably been burnt alive by his jealous younger brother when his father passed the Rolls Royce to him in the will.

The ghost of that man had killed a nine year old child two years later when a new family moved into that house. Why did he kill that kid? No idea. He was an angry ghost. Go watch Supernatural.

Anyway, now the ghost of that little girl haunts the house along with the ghost of the first dude.

Then I saw this detective guy, most probably the stereotypical brooding type, being brought in to solve a third murder. He realizes somehow that there was something strange going on, and then his partner probably dies in a ‘freak accident’. Trips and hangs himself by a low dangling clothesline, maybe? Fuzzy on details, the skeleton plot was just being assembled.

And when I got to the part where he turns to a psychic for help, and the ghost of the little girl helps the root out the ghost of the old man, I realized something.

This was no short story! This was whole full-fledged novel!!!

And, looking back on it a second time, a darn crappy one, too.

Just like that, that imaginary ledge crumbled under my limp imaginary fingers and I fell into the crushing, imaginary darkness.

And now I was under pressure. It was like I was in a vice and the walls were closing in, and the guy twisting the handle was doing that old black-and-white movie villain laugh, while twirling that ridiculously long, thin moustache with the other hand.

I had to come up with something, and I was losing it.

I almost always plan ahead. It’s gotten so that it’s practically something I do unconsciously. I knew what I wanted to post in a few weeks. I have already drafted a few posts that I’m holding till the time is right.

But sometimes, I get satisfied enough with what I’ve done for the future that I forget about the present. Like just now. I knew what I wanted to post next week, the week after and so on, but for now, to fill in that gap between right now and then, I was clueless.

Then, I don’t know how it happened, but suddenly, the crushing pressure just… stopped. The weight was just gone, and there I was, sitting and wondering what I was so worked up about. I shrugged, told myself that I’d sleep on it, and forgot about it just like that.

And this is where I come to the moral of today’s ramble. Yes, there was a moral in this pile of nonsense. Think of it as a plot twist if you like.

If you’re ever backed into a corner, or feel pressurized by most things, probably more often than its not you that’s overreacting; it’s your mind. You might just be giving yourself too much pressure to do what you have to do, and you’re so busy imagining what might happen if you fail that you don’t have enough processing power to actually get the job done.

A misuse of imagination if there ever was one.

Get up, take a walk, watch a movie, relax. Whatever it is, it will come to you when it is good and ready. All you have to do is sit and wait for it.

You could say it’s like you’re taking a walk and then slam right into this huge, twenty foot tall wall that appeared just in front of you without warning. Now, you could spend all day trying to climb up that wall, only you’ll probably fall down hard again.

This is writer’s block, or any other malady that affects the continuation of whatever it is you’re doing.

What you can do is ignore the wall and go take a stroll in the opposite direction. You could even jam your hands in your pockets and whistle for added effect. After a while, one of two things will probably happen.

A, you would return to find a small door at the bottom you happen to not notice before. You take the door and leave the wall behind as you continue on your merry way.

B, you feel the ground tremble as an earthquake of inspiration hits you like a… well, a Richter scale 10 earthquake. Turn around, and you will see that the wall has crumbled to rubble. All you have to do is skip daintily over it and be on your way.

I let myself forget about what I had to post and just told myself to let it come to me. And this morning, when I woke up, it did come to me.

And here it is.

This would probably go far in explaining to you why all that you just read looked the way it did. If by now you’re wondering if everything up there is just an excuse for being there in the first place… well, you’re probably right.

And don’t worry. I guarantee you’re not the only one who read that sentence a second time just so see if it makes sense. I did, too. And no, it probably doesn't