Writer's Block

Once upon a time I used to write rather frequently. Usually when I wasn't supposed to - i.e. mid class. It was usually accompanied by doodle and sketching (which I wasn't supposed to be doing either) and occasional meditative contemplations on morality and existence and sometimes even things as mundane as the intricacies of the human hand. I keep a journal to keep myself writing. Or rather, I KEPT a journal for that purpose. It still sits beside the bed, covered in dust, outdated and in sore need of a new entry. Most of my updating happens here, on the internet.

Part of this is because I simply don't know what to say to paper anymore. I used to write random stories, have conversations written out between my hands (the left had terrible handwriting, and was a darker persona), stray thoughts that came to mind. When I type it's easier to follow stream of consciousness because my fingers don't ache after ten minutes of solid writing and I don't forget where I was headed with a train of thought before I'm done writing it down. Also, it's easier to go back and fix mistakes.

But there's a romantic part of me that knows that writing is a much more elegant, classic, permanent means of creation. It can be carried into the woods, read by candle light, passed down from generation to generation. It can survive long after hardware and software has made this or that program obsolete. I lost a short story when Windows went from Works to Word, simply because I no longer had the means to retrieve it. A book or journal is limited only by user's ability to read it, the language through sight and recognition of characters.

But what do I tell my journal, long since neglected in favor of my electronic world? What do I write when my fingers cramp and eyes get tired or glaring at the stubborn pages?

And my drawing, too, has suffered. Once I could conjure worlds and personalities from a pen, breathing life into art with a stroke of a pencil. Now? Now I struggle to think of what to draw. A blank page, FULL of possibility!... but I do nothing, paralyzed by my indecision. The words, the worlds... my pen has lost it's edge, my pencil is broken, my armor and shield in the creative process are dull and colorless.

But perhaps I am still creating, here, where you can read it. Where I can revisit it. Here, where it - far more than my simple written journal - can possibly tough the heart of someone else. Perhaps it will conjure to mind a memory or stray thought of your own.

And in that, I am satisfied.