The Writer's Box

Painting Credit: Adolf Werner, The Misery (Das Elend)

The most stinging irony is being a writer with nothing to write about. It’s kind of embarrassing sometimes. You spend so much time stringing together the perfect words, creating structured sentences, and trying to make sense of everything around you through language. Every book, metaphor, enjambment, and sense of imagery you have ever digested to get you going and yet nothing comes to mind.  

The blank page stares at you in accusation, waiting while you question everything you knew about writing. Writer's block is more or less seen as a minor inconvenience that can be resolved with a change of environment, some caffeine, or even some music. But for writers, it can feel a bit more personal. Writing is not just a pastime activity, it is a way of understanding who we are and taking in the world around us. When that ability is restricted, it can make us feel like we have briefly lost a part of our identity. 

Probably the worst part of writer’s block isn’t that you are unable to produce something to write, but more of the opposite: you want to say everything but don’t know exactly how to. Every thought refuses to become a “good” sentence, description fuzzes our memories and feelings will seem imperfect as they lie upon the page. We are stuck between what we want to say and how well the page will support the weight of the words. There are a lot of pressures when it comes to the outlook of literature. We want our writing to be more than meets the eye. We want original metaphors, striking imagery and sentences that deliver punches, making readers re-read and recognize a feeling they have never been able to explain. Unfortunately, a desire so rich can prevent us from creating anything. We begin to edit thoughts that haven’t gotten a full chance to exist. 

It is easy to forget that even some of the most noble writers have experienced this in their careers. Creativity doesn’t just flow like a river of inspiration, it can be demanding and almost absent. There is a created romanticism within the literary process; the aesthetic of being surrounded by a massive amount of books and a consistent, graceful prose. We don’t tend to think about all the discarded drafts, dried out pens, piles of crumpled paper and the hours spent hunched over words that you don’t even know if they belong. 

Maybe it’s because we associate writing with the other aspects of production. We use the number of pages, ideas, and poems to measure creativity. We forget that writing involves observation. It requires you to listen, experience, live, and sometimes be bored. You have to step back and allow the world to provide, rather than trying to extract meaning from everything you see. 

Some of the best writing stems from a deactivated search. An old memory resurfaces, a setting that has grown from quiet to loud, or the sight of an unexpected event can become the foundation of a strong piece. Literature has always found significance within the ordinary, you just have to be attentive enough to see it. 

There is something interesting about the blank page itself. There is so much area to explore, but that comes with uncertainty. It’s the space between point A and B. Looking at everything, maybe writer’s block isn’t the entire loss of creativity, but the confrontations between expression and language. We want our words to convey things perfectly, even though it is inherently faulty. Some things refuse to be explained. Feelings shrink as we try to put them into words, and sometimes silence communicates more than a full page ever could. 

There is a difference between accepting the uncertainty and letting it become permanent. At some point, as writers, we return to the blank pages. We write fragmented sentences, useless paragraphs and running metaphors. We remember that the first draft will not be the final product. It is just the beginning of a long conversation with ourselves and the readers. One we revise, reshape, revamp, and then reveal. 

Perhaps the solution to writer’s block is to do nothing at all; instead of forcing inspiration to come our way, we reconsider what to expect from it. There is no need for every sentence to be beautiful, well structured, thought provoking or publishable. A writer is not defined by how fluid the words come to them. The page won’t be blank forever; the words will return before you can really miss them. Maybe one day we’ll understand that the silence was never truly empty but needed to be listened to instead.