WRITER’S BLOCK

I used to have this crazy belief that I was a born writer. A natural.

That words come miraculously out of my head and form themselves into one cohesive idea that can, by some freak of nature, translate itself into something that readers can actually relate. Writing was a gift.
I mean, I really DID believe that.

And, God was I delusional!

Earlier, I had just created myself a blog --- after some reasonable urging from my equally delusional best friend --- where I can actually store all my bottled up writing energy and share my less-than-significant thoughts to anyone who had the patience to read. I had created it about two hours ago, and I’ve been staring at the monitor ever since.

TWO FULL HOURS! And not a single word. Unbelievable.

Apparently, I forgot to take note of some pretty minor details when I began summoning up the words. The last time I actually wrote a decent article was when I was in high school, and all throughout college the only pieces I’ve done were research papers and dissertations which are usually the result of a series of carefully-thought of “cut-copy-paste’s” and hardly needs any personal literary input.

What a way to dust off the cobwebs. Eight years ago I wouldn’t have thought it possible! It never even crossed my mind.

Thesaurus was my one true friend in my teens, always in my reach whenever I’m in need. With books I found my first love, and in writing I found a very intimate relationship, so intimate that when others read my pieces I felt like they were invading my personal space! Therefore, it also goes to follow, that I had a virtually zero social life.

I just didn’t understand people before. I was terribly socially-inept. And as a means of conversing, I turned to writing journals instead.

I didn’t quite expect to lose all that passion in writing when I learned social skills 101 though.

Apparently, the only thing that remains unchanged is my continuing fascination with pens. Even though all I seem to produce with it now are some random scribbles that include countless repetition of my name in different lettering styles and some futile attempt in sketching officemates to keep self from being sleepy while in a meeting.

It would be wonderful to rediscover the art of putting thoughts into words again and survive from this literary rusting. Because that crazy belief of being a born writer, is one very crazy belief I would not mind believing again.

*wink-wink*