The Root of the Problem

I close my eyes and lean back on the couch, seeking that daydream state. Somewhere, in the depths of my racial memories, in the murky brackish water of my subconscious swamp, there must be the germ of an idea and the seed of a mighty creative work waiting to be discovered.

I dream of root tendrils seeking nutrients from the creative clay, the humus of ideas past, now fallen and decaying slowly. In my imagination, the leaves rot to form another, fresh layer of nutrients that will feed tomorrow’s ideas. My roots try to find some purchase, some magic blossom of a simple, brilliant epiphany.

Somewhere back there, in the buried creative remains of my own and other authors must be the rapture that daydreaming sometimes turns up.

I can’t find it, not today, not this week. The racial creativity myth is a fable. My ancestors cannot or will not help me.

I don’t taste the sweet honey of any fresh ideas.

The only flavors I can find are rotten acorns and blind grubs, and slimy, wet black mosses that taste like death. The root of the problem lies inside the author. He has character, but it must be rotten.

parkinkspot sq logo

200 words. Uninspired by this week’s Sunday Photo Fiction prompt:

I don’t have writer’s block, denial

…well, not exactly.

I’m highly distracted, by television and twitter and facebook and all of those things I should know how to turn off by now. I used to prefer quiet to noisebox.

Now I’ve acquired a way to carry around a host of distractions in my hand, it’s only grown worse. I used to sneer at people who never put down their cell phones; and now I am one. Productivity, naturally, has taken a nosedive.

The more I learn about writing, the more critical I become of my own. And, when I feel discouraged, I can almost always find something to do that does not feel like an uphill struggle.

Nanowrimo left me behind. It depresses me that I don’t have the raw output (or the great idea, or even a rough plot) required to put into a novel-length work.

I edit while I’m writing; which is a really bad bad BAD habit.

I throw away ideas for being too trivial, or too difficult, or too big, or too small. My favorite haunts are part of the problem; a drabble is too small to contain “real” characters or “real” plots, yet I have no “markets,” no place to contribute longer fiction. So there’s another excuse to not write it at all.

And I’m drowning in unwritten ideas, yet cannot finish a story in time to match prompt [X] before deadline [Y].

Prompts aren’t helping, in my current state.

In short, I have ten thousand excuses to not write. Taking it way more seriously that necessary.

Psychoanalysis time! Doc, help me out of this Flop Sweat funk.

RecDave Seal

And reading all of that, I realize it is a classic writer’s doubt block, that I’ll need to learn to deal with. Let’s start with turning off the T.V. After this episode of Blindspot. And lunch. (fail)