The Wall

In my perfect fairy tale world, I think of life flowing smoothly on. Writing the enigma it is clearly doesn’t follow the rules.  Words either take on a life of their own or stubbornly refuse to cooperate like a fledgling adolescent. Sitting in front of my virginal word document, there is no black to be seen.

The outcome moves further from me as I vow to plough on. Wringing words out of my inner space, I survey the scene, a mass of disjointed thoughts and concepts that refuse all attempts at cohesion.  Is it even salvageable? With dismay I give it away for a bit. Tomorrow will be better.


Reviewing yesterday, I sit in judgement pronouncing the same verdict. My effort deemed beyond redemption. Ignoring all good writing advice I resolutely press delete. Somehow a fresh page promises a new dawn, giving me another chance to create images engaging the reader by virtue of the print on my page.

This space is like a ‘T’ intersection, it can go either way. At times, the wind fans an enticing idea until the flames burn brightly and words flow onto the page. Under their own momentum they continue until the end. Or a cold squall dries up the seed in its husk leaving it barren, incapable of germination.

To me this is my wall.

By now my bladder is screaming and the carpet becomes increasingly threadbare, too many cups of tea taunting my bladder. Frustration stalls any hope I have of communicating ideas. Corrosive, aptly describes this space. Lingering here threatens the writing process, snuffing the spark out completely, no smoke and no fire.

Breaks are essential. Writing from the heart can be exhausting, difficult subject matter both challenging and draining, intent lost in the muddying the waters. My words make no sense.

Off to the garden to prune the roses. If I could hear their voice, I am sure they’d sigh, “Here she comes again.”

There is something highly satisfying about cutting away the dead wood, making way for lush new growth. Roses are very forgiving; they really don’t seem to mind. Armed with sharp thorns, to escape unscathed, I have to focus on the task completely. I actively deny my mind the chance to ponder my non-productive state.

Hours pass. My back bent in the winter sun. I think of nothing at all. My page is returned to me as an invitation, another chance. In the shower ideas pop into my head as the water from the faucet massages my scalp.

What works for you? Please share your thoughts to inspire others.

2 thoughts on “The Wall

  1. I sure understand. Watering and working in my gardens is my cure for writer’s block too. 🙂 It is lovely to be out there in LIFE, to participate in helping things thrive, that frees my mind of burdensome thoughts and allows the good to float to the top. Wishing you good words.


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