Writer's Block

The white page is mocking me. It stands solemnly, staring intently at me. Its empty lines seemingly full of expectation and disappointment. It seems as though it knows what is coming next, even before I do. Why won’t it give me the story I should write?

Since I was tiny, writing has always come easily to me. Stories were always the perfect escape from whatever troubles were plaguing me in my simple life. When the daily events of existence were confusing or painful, I could find a sense of solitude in the worlds of my own. In simple terms, literature of my own or others, made sense, in a universe that did not. I could control the events of my worlds, change things, erase things. In the real world, I held no control over the actions of my peers. And from the time that I began to write, I held a kind of contempt for the uncontrollable world, and fell in love with the simple imagination of writing.

As I grew, the complexity and meaning of my writing grew with me. I changed from simply designing my own worlds and people, to adding histories and character to them. My first tales took place in fantasy lands, with recurring characters and simple plot lines. I was known to write and rewrite scenes from my stories which I enjoyed, just for the pure thrill of reliving them. At the age of eight, I turned away from the fantasy of my early childhood, and took to writing about the people around me. There was a kind of comfort I could find in recreating the world. For the first time I had found a way to control the world around me, as when I wrote, I gained more knowledge of the people who I interacted with. I learnt that knowledge was power, and used the power I had gained to advance my way through school.

At the age of ten, I discovered the joy of entertaining my readers. I became less selfish, although I still held pleasure in my words, and began to find ways to manipulate the emotions of people. I wrote sad stories, with deep meanings and underlying plots. My characters became more human, and became relatable. I could make people like, dislike and understand my characters. I could then change people’s minds, make them feel guilty and make them think. And in this non-violent manipulation, this careful tending of others’ souls, I realised the true purpose of writing: that when I write a story, it isn’t all about me. It is about my creations, the true driving force of the story, and through the characters it is my responsibility to discuss issues which I cannot bring up as a person. I fell completely, carelessly and irrevocably in love with characterisation, and it became the true substance of my writing.

Although I grew in my characters, my event-based writing began to suffer. In fear of sounding arrogant, my character epiphany brought me far beyond the standards that school expected. I no longer cared for recounts or sentences, I wanted to explore the innermost layers of people’s thoughts, and discuss controversial issues. Chances to test my ability to write were few and far between, and I nurtured a frustration with the pace of learning. This discomfort and inability to conform to the school’s expectations of my writing broke its borders, spreading into all areas of my education. It affected my relationships with friends and teachers, and brought a feeling of creative claustrophobia. Writing, my greatest friend, became my greatest enemy.

Shortly after my eleventh birthday, I was set a task which would change my idea of writing forever. My ability to discuss a taboo topic had been constricted to the realms of fantasy. I found that I could get away with more controversy when I used fake names and fake worlds. Within my breakaway creativity, I still craved the sense of acceptance, and therefore did not want to shake the comfortable foundations I had laid for myself. But I yearned for clarity in my writing, sick of cleverly avoiding the topic I wanted to discuss. So I broke away from my fearful hiding, and made a clear statement in a story which would change my life. I wrote on an event which changed the world, one that was still painful in the eyes of my peers and teachers. Instead of accepting their opinion on the matter, which was influenced by media and political discussions, I offered an alternative view. For the first time in years, I had impressed myself on the page, and it caught the eye of teachers and my peers alike.

From that moment on, I used my advanced concepts to connect with my teachers, instead of allowing them to alienate me because of them. I gained permission from my school and myself to discuss anything that went undiscussed, and literarily challenged the rules of society. I also used this victory to break away from the fantasy realm which had dominated my writing, and began to explore the real world. I fused together my original writing, and my characterisation, to make my own brand of storytelling. I was comfortable in this position, and as I found out, this was a dangerous place for me to be. I no longer felt the need to test boundaries, and fight authority through my writing, as I had achieved my goal. I became complacent with my words, no longer searching for a new adjective or concept with the passion I once had.

I believe that the reason for this lay in the fact that my ability to write was surpassing my ability to tell a story. I had the ability to discuss topics and ideas that my brain wasn’t developed enough to create. I believe that an ability to tell a story comes from the amount of stories that you have consumed, whereas the ability to express a story comes from both natural ability and practice. Until this point in my life, I was much more inclined to write down my own stories, and develop my own characters, than I was to enjoy someone else’s. But, with school reading programs, and my introduction to the world of semi-adult literature, my inclination was reversed. And with this change, my writing was affected. I suddenly had stories flying around my brain, stories with deeper plots than any I have written before. I had ideas for characters which tested the bounds of good and evil, and for events which would shape them. I had questions which I need to answer in my writing. But, these days, I no longer have the words to express these things. As time went on, I have forsaken my sacred craft of writing. In many ways, reading has both marred and extended my stories. I don’t question the importance of reading, just the balance that I have unfortunately ignored. And in my ignorance of moderation, I have suffered a terrible cost.

So while the blank page that haunted me earlier is somewhat filled, I am still forced to consider what this all means. With every story that I begin, and don’t finish, and every un-rhyming poem, there is a sense of what I have lost. I wish to question society, as I once did in my writing, playfully explore the world around me, and find flaws anonymously. I truly do not question my ability to do so, if only I tried a little harder, I merely question my commitment to the cause. The solemn blank pages and lonely titles forever mean that I have lost part of my passion to the writing. The pure meaning of fantasy, the explanation of incomprehensible things, the way to make others see things that are not there; that is the true meaning of my literature. For now, I must accept the empty pages, and formless stories of my writing as a stage. I hope, desperately still, to return one day to the fantastic paradise of words.