True confessions: there have been a few desert times in my writing life, times when I had a deep desire to write but didn’t know what to write or how. Mostly, though, my writing life has consisted (so far) of a different kind of writer’s block – ideas and words and images and characters all coming to the surface, but I never have enough time to give them the attention I think they deserve. I feel a responsibility toward them, as if they exist at least in part independent of me, and they are looking to me to set them free into the world. But I usually can’t set them free; I don’t have time. There is a kink in the hose. Can any of you other writers relate to these feelings, these mixed metaphors, or am I off my rocker? “Delusions of grandeur,” Han Solo would call it.
A Different Kind of Writer’s Block