The Bloody Doors Off

I have writer’s block. Not with the play. But for today’s blog.

This is a daily thing for me. To see where I’m at. Finding strength and bringing it forward. To find ways to climb out of the darkness. To make plans for the future.

And I have nothing to say. It’s all drivel. It’s fucking cliche. Forced.

Was struggling earlier with the new draft of the play. Couldn’t get my mind around it, despite the meeting yesterday and the notes I took. So I took a walk in the drizzle to the grocery store to get peanut butter. And two blocks in, a question forms: what if I switch the ages of 2 of the characters? What if the protagonist was younger? What if? The wheels turned. And when I got back, over the course of hours and dinner, I got through a chunk of two scenes. They still need some work, but the idea’s there. And provided a hint for more.

So why can’t I do that with my personal narrative? Why can’t I ask a simple question and come up with a new way to look at my life and find a possibility for happiness? Why am I so stupidly blocked?

And that above paragraph? Feels so fucking contrived.