I’ve experienced Writers Block.
An inability to want to write, a feeling that you’re not good enough, or that everything needs too much work, or that there isn’t enough time to bother.
The hardest one for me is feeling like everything I write is shit. Every word I wriggle out of my pen is just meant for the trash and there’s nothing I can do to change that.
The hardest part is fighting it, fighting the way my muse decides to shut up about everything and just remind me that the only thing I’m worth is garbage.
The way I fight that is just to accept the garbage. Write through writing bad because eventually I know I’ll begin to see things I don’t like, and why I don’t like them, and then I can change something. I can’t change anything if I don’t know what’s shit. I have to write the shit in order to identify the smell.
Sometimes you’ve got to just jump into the refrigerator, nose open, and sniff everything until you find what stinks.
For me, sometimes that doesn’t work and I still feel like my writing’s shit despite looking for everything that smells bad, and that’s when I take it to be scrutinized by others. Usually they’ll be more considerate of my problems than I am. I wrote a review on one of my own poems once as an exercise, and the person I was doing the exercise for told me I was too harsh.
I was forgetting to point out the good.
So maybe next time I have to go de-smell my refrigerator, I’ll look for something sweet to tide over my nose between each bad thing I find.
I took all of these pictures were taken at a place in a city which used to be a car plant which was torn down and left a vacant hole. Now, it is being used to deposit trash in these heaps, and those heaps are growing greenery on the vast concrete nothingness.