It’s been one year.

I sit alone staring at my monitor yet again, with another weekend night wasted attempting to continue to express myself through a medium other than the screeching machinations of my own internal monologue. Another attempt at conveying ideas which I want to express onto the blank canvas of a page.

Yet I cannot.

I’ve never had trouble with making up stories in the past, especially not stories that I wished to tell. Asking those who knew me at my youngest would garner you answers to the affirmative. Yet somehow now I find myself at a blockade. A great wall which taunts me with its height, breadth, and density. When I consider scaling it the feat seems impossible, and I’m confounded by the notion. Inner turmoil strikes me as I believe myself unworthy of even attempting the challenge ahead at some times and at others too inferior and unskilled to scale the entire looming structure once I have begun. There is no way through this problem and no way around it, no shortcuts to be taken or alternate paths. The beast I fight in my attempts to scream myself at the world is a beast that can only be fought directly; challenged head on.

Writer’s block is a bitch to deal with, especially when you have things that you want to say but feel like there is no proper way to say them.

Or, when you feel like you do not have the finesse to execute them. I don’t know if its a bi-product of aging and losing some of the naivete which I had up until now, or maybe its the better understanding of storytelling which I gained through the last years of my schooling, (or perhaps even both (or neither)) but the potential I used to see in my own work and in myself as a (very very VERY) amateur writer has dwindled to a level of self doubt which is alien to me.

It feels like something is missing, something which I should have but I don’t, something I’ve carried on me for years like a child carries a blanket, but then another week reaches its close and my ideas which I want to express go silently into the back of my mind; out of the reach of my fingers on my keyboard.

I feel like the child after the blanket is lost. I feel like I’m a runner, those who would deliver messages between towns and cities in ancient Europe, and I’ve traveled hundreds of kilometres on a journey only to forget the message I was supposed to deliver at the destination. There is more of the journey left but its pointless if I have forgotten the message, and I can’t turn around and go back to ask what the message was because by that point the message will have no meaning. So now my task becomes to not only continue on but also remember the message I was tasked with expressing!

This feeling which is not even in my opinion worthy of being called writers block for its lack of actually being any form of creative stifling (yet this is still an easier way of identifying it than to come up with a new name) rips at me and tears at me and confuses me all at once, which is beyond infuriating.

Its a really long, pretentious, and largely hyperbolic way of saying that I am stuck on the why of my inability to write fiction and not actually solving the problem.

I’m struggling to come up with stories that live up to my expectations, and now that my rant is done I’m hoping this blog can change that. Whenever I get a chance to write something I think is cool down, I probably will. Its just going to be a way of shooting ideas out and letting them be accepted or rejected as time continues. An exercise in exploration of the characters I can create. In between that stuff I suppose I’m going to write about things that interest me. If you’ve read this bitch-fest and like the way that I complain melodramatically about a mild problem which I’ve had for the last 12 months or so, feel free to stick around and look at my other stuff when I post it. Hopefully you’ll like that too.