Writer's Bloq.

I’ve tried so many times to write this essay. I feel that it’s there in me, somewhere, but discovering this elusive nook of eloquent secrets is much more difficult that I anticipated. I haven’t quite pinpointed what it looks like, which makes it difficult to search for. But really, I mean, come on—it’s about me, isn’t it? Shouldn’t I be the ultimate authority on myself, the best one to put my own thoughts into words?

Sometimes I think that the most difficult thing about personal writing is that I’ve read too much of others’ ideas. My mind has created a composite of everything I’ve ever known as a typeface for how my own story should look; because it has to have closure and it has to have an ‘aha!’ moment of startling realization and the characters must be developed and whoever writes it must have a complete and thorough understanding of her story and all the morals behind it, which she then applies in her own life and—presto!—she is the perfect person.

But my story is not perfect and God knows I’m not either. It feels impossible to pare down characters that I really know into short story figures and my ‘aha!’ didn’t knock the wind out of me with the kind of abruptness that seems appropriate for normal climaxes. I’m not sure how the story ends or even exactly where it begins. The only thing I’m sure of is that what I think it should be and what it is don’t seem to align so well.

I wonder.

I wonder how I would go about writing it if I had never read another’s story.

I guess I would just start typing.