Block

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It feels like I'm standing on a book shelf surrounded by my books. And then the shelf tips upwards on one end and I go sliding over to the left, crash into the wall with the books around me, and all of a sudden I'm at the bottom of another week. Another week and I still haven't written anything. I'm in a pile of sweaters on the floor and boots, I must have gone out one of those nights if I wore my boots, there are papers and pens and new books. Every week I acquirer new books. Read them in the bathtub or on the bus, fling them aside halfway through. Decide they disgust me or they delight me, and if they delight me I'll carry them around in my bag for a while like a stuffed dog, reach in and pat them when I'm standing in line at the grocery store or the bank. Just to know they are there.

Another week of writer's block.

Each week the same. I start off so far away, so congested with ideas and aspirations and apprehensions and then someone rattles the bookshelf and we all go skittering across and then it's over. A few weeks pass and then a month passes. And I still haven't written anything. Been a social butterfly, don't doubt it. I cram in as many runs and bouldering sessions and dinners and drinks and work- real work, the work that pays now that I can't write and I'm no longer a writer- up early to clean my room and do laundry and zip around because if I'm not going to be writing, then I might as well be productive about it! Better to hop out of the house all day instead of seeing the computer screen lure at me all white and glowing, with the blue stripe down the middle that means the computer is on it's way out and one of these days it's just going to not start up at all, taking all my photos with it because I didn't get them up and published in time! I go to a  dinner party at Jake's house on Sunday- I met the girl who worked for NOLS who had funny things to say about dating sailors. Laugh a lot. Drink red wine and eat Jake's latkes. And the night before that was Anna's show, I was drunk on beer and touching everyone a lot, before that I had dinner with Ammen and Steph and Jesse and Megan, we took a long cold walk around the golf course and Ammen went manic and tackled me down the hill. Jessie made us homemade panna cotta with crushed pistachios and marmalade. There have been frozen waterfalls and snow, cycling through the same CDs in the car as we drive East, coffee in the mornings and beer in the afternoon, when I'm not at work for heaven's sake. I'm Pushing another deadline back, meeting up with Brittany and Heather and Jenny for bouldering and when no one is in the mood for push themselves, we head over to Back Bar to drink appertifs and talk about every single person that we've ever seen who climbs at the gym. Tipping our heads back and laughing because we have big plans! For a girls ski weekend! And a boots and bourbon themed party! And we can take on the whole world!

But the truth is I'm not writing any of it down. And maybe I fear every week that crashes past : one more week behind on every project. Seven days fly by on the blog and nothing- how much readership have I lost, for good. One week older. One week marching towards the inevitable need to find a grown up job, a real job, one that takes over my life and puts actual money in the bank. Maybe I study the calendar at night, late at night when I can't sleep, when the medicine wears off at two, three in the morning and I sit up too quickly, knock a glass of water on myself. I look at the calendar and think- another piece of this month, another portion of this year, and nothing is changing. Nothing is changing.

Which is, of course, not even remotely true.

 

 Maybe my heart's been cracked again and every day forward is a victory, a step away from the puncture wound of a day when things got confusing. And I'm running, running, running to put it behind me. Every breath is a skip forward- breathe in- steady- breathe out- propel. Propel onwards. Sometimes this is the case. Other times not. Maybe I'm so exhilarated by the love in this rainy place, by the flock of friends who in habit this city like colorful birds- maybe I know I'm so lucky to have them, to be one of them, here- now- while they are still here- that I'm in awe of their quirks, flaws, triumphs, humor, generosity and cooking skills that I can't possibly understand how I deserve to have them. Maybe I stand at the top of the shelf each week and shout: SLOW DOWN. MAKE THIS ALL SLOW DOWN A LITTLE! And maybe at the bottom of the shelf each week when I've been slammed against the wall and suddenly I'm a trained doula and suddenly I'm climbing 5.11 again and suddenly I know the name of the boy at the gym who smiles at me and wears sweaters, and I look up to the sky and cup my hands around my mouth and shout: HOW 'BOUT ANOTHER ONE!

(Either way if this writer's block doesn't resolve soon itself I need to find a new profession. )