(no subject)

[seraphcelene]

I wish that I could remember how to write.

I wish that I could recall the business of putting pen to paper and blindly watching the ink unravel itself across a surface of textured napkin and smooth paper, squished onto envelopes and yellow post-it notes. Pieces of me fragmented and scattered with hubristic abandon around the house. Crammed into notebooks, stuck to dresser drawers and the doors of cabinets.

Even if I gather them up, now they are just noise in my hands, pre-celluloid images without reference. Tattered, beggared beginnings and a few corners without a story.

Comments

[lostakasha.livejournal.com]

Wouldn't it just be awesome?

It's so difficult for writers to comfort each other, I think. It would certainly be nice (and true) for *me* to say that even when you're stuck and suffering you express that empty pain so beautifully, but it doesn't actually help you at all.

I got nothin'. No super-vision. Not even a creamy chicken casserole or a bottle of Grey Goose. But if I did, I'd share it with you.

[seraphcelene]

It's odd ... and vindicating and utterly flattering to be appreciated by writers. It does provide comfort, but at the same time, because we can't ever get out of our own heads it's still so much sound and fury. At least at those low points where writing feels like an especially difficult chore. It's crazy how much our sense of worth (for anything) is this crazy mix of what we think and what others think. I totally respect you as a writer and having your feedback is amazing, but when I'm facing this unrelenting writer's block there doesn't seem to be anything that anyone can say to make me feel better.

So. Stupid. Really.

But thank you!! I'd take your creamy chicken casserole or Grey Goose, if you had it and be glad to share the meal. :)