I'm likely to be found buried under a pile of sticky notes. That's right, that's how I'll go: Death by Post-it.
For those who have followed my tweets and posts (at this blog or at The Book Stops Here) in the past few months, you've probably come to the right conclusion. Yes, I'm suffering my worst bout of writers block ever. I've written about visits from my old pal Writers Block before, but this time it's different, something has evolved. Like a virus, Writers Block, whom I've always found a way to get rid of before, has mutated into a new kind of super Block, one I cannot beat for the life of me.
While I still try to write with the mutated Writers Block, every writer will tell you that forced writing, is merely an imitation of writing. That said, while the words are not in my favor, some things in my mind are still working. Much like how they claim Hope to be the last things to leave the human body, it seems Inspiration is the last thing to leave this writer. While I can't seem to put a story together on the laptop, not even at a second grade level, I can still come up with ideas, concepts, and scenes.
So, what happens to writer when they have been infected by a mutated Writers Block virus, but is still able to get inspiration? While being hit with an extreme feed of images on a daily basis, and without the ability to get the images out in a piece of work, the writer may A) go bananas. B) end up creatively dead. Or C, be forced to find a different outlet.
I, refusing to creatively die or go bananas, opted for C. And the answer, my dear Watson, was elementary. Post-its. That's right. The only thing keeping me mentally afloat right now is the multicolored sticky notes, possibly invented by Romy and Michele. Post-its: the prefect size to hold my discombobulated thoughts.
And while they are saving me from dying in a literal sense, I've come to realize they may be the
actual death of me as the probability of me drowning in them grows by the day. There are Post-its everywhere. My car. My purse. My bedroom. My desk. I even found one on my butt yesterday. No idea how long I'd walked around with a pink sticky note reading: "And...a partridge and a pear tree?" (Aston - Chapter 7.) I just hope it ended up there after I went to Walgreens and not before.
I think there comes a time in everyone's life where they approach the cross roads of keep fighting (Right) and moving on (Left). While pondering whether to go right or not, one should simply ask oneself the age-old question: is this really worth me drowning in a pile of Post-its?
My answer: yes, of course it is. Anything worthwhile in life is worth drowning in a pile of Post-its over.