It's not new to me to experience writer's block and it's not new to start writing and realize that it's just not working. I have entire folders of abandoned sketches and stories that never went anywhere. But that's not what's happening now.
I've tried all the usual strategies - setting aside dedicated time, going to places where I've written before, eliminating distractions, bringing books on writing and idea generating, in short, I've tried everything that's worked before and it's not working.
I'm suddenly scared to write. Why?
Good question... I think I know, but even admitting it to myself is sending darts of dread and nauseous panic through me. The walls are crumbling. The walls that I've built over so many years and have shored up for even longer, to protect myself from feeling more than I can deal with or process, those walls are crumbling faster than I can rebuild and I'm panicking. I've written about these defenses before, but I'll just say here that I've taken it for granted that they are solid and that they'll be there until I choose to dismantle them, in a slow and controlled manner. I know, it seems laughable now to think that I was so certain of my powers of control. But it worked for so many years so can you really blame me for buying into my own hype? And yet, how sad is it to believe your own story? Or how laughable? And I would laugh, if I didn't think I'd just burst into tears a moment later. This is where I am now - completely at the mercy of my ungovernable and illogical emotions which are clearly reveling in their revenge. They are out now and I have fresh scars to prove it.
When did it happen? When did these cracks appear? I tried looking back, but I'm not thinking straight. Every time I try to relax and think through things in a logical and calm manner, something erupts inside, derailing and tossing me back into the maelstrom. It's exhausting and horrifying and it leaves me feeling rudderless and shaken. I've gotten used to trusting myself and the logic that I felt was guiding my life and all that has been swept aside and I don't know how to get it back. Every night when I go to sleep I don't know who will wake up the next day.
So what does that have to do with my inability to write? Everything... For years, writing has been a release valve. A brief, controlled, safe letting out of steam. My writing, whether fiction or biographical, was always about carefully stepping into a role, experiencing the emotions of the situation, documenting it, and then stepping back out.
I'm terrified of water so this is the best way I can explain it... Writing was a slow descent into a shallow pool - walk down the steps, enjoy the calm, take a quick dip while keeping a wary eye on the guard rail, go back up. Now, writing is jumping off a cliff into a bottomless ocean and I can't swim. I can't swim.
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